


Silver Bullets

by clandestine_meetings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Gore, Captivity, Dark Remus Lupin, Enemies to Lovers, First War with Voldemort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Remus Lupin Never Went to Hogwarts, Stockholm Syndrome, Werewolf Culture, Werewolves, but not sad, definitely not happy, just dark, okay its pretty sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22073881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clandestine_meetings/pseuds/clandestine_meetings
Summary: Remus has lived in Greyback’s werewolf pack all his life. Sirius is the Order member assigned to capture the Alpha, certain the werewolves could play a vital part in the war.orFive months in the midst of a war.
Relationships: Fenrir Greyback/Remus Lupin, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 35
Kudos: 178





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: characters and world belong to JK Rowling. The writing, OCs and plot belong to me. Certain elements are inspired by other fanfiction authors (listed at the end).
> 
> WARNING: gory images, violence, implied/heavily referenced rape, referenced past child abuse, alcohol, implied sex, language 
> 
> — (NOTHING EXPLICIT THOUGH)
> 
> Please be kind to yourself! Do not read if you're in a position to be upset by the tags and warnings that have been listed. Honestly, this is dark. Be careful. Mental health is important and everyone should take care of themselves. Love you all! Xxx
> 
> I started writing this in May and it took over my life. Thank you so much for reading.

.

****

S I L V E R  
B U L L E T S

.

**PROLOGUE**

**November 4th, 1982**

**(morning of the hunter’s moon)**

You don’t need silver bullets to kill a werewolf.

A quick curse does it just fine, even a potion. Beheading, if you fancy being dramatic. Anything to stop a human’s heart works for a beast. 

It doesn’t stop the Ministry. 

Burning, shooting in a fiery stream as it rips through the chest and into the heart, then past and to the other side. A _plink_ as it strikes the back wall. A gasp from the wolf in question. 

Pain for a moment.

Then it’s over and the wolf slumps in a heap.

Picked up from the floor by cold, uncaring hands. They don’t know its name. They won’t look at its face for fear of seeing any shred of humanity in its slack features. For fear of being left with remorse.

The body, scars and blood and jutting bones, dragged out the door and gone. 

There’s a pool of blood on the floor. There’s a splatter on the wall behind. There’s a single silver bullet rolling back and forth on the floor. They’ll cover the blood with more of their paint, pretending again this process doesn’t exist at all. 

You don’t need silver bullets to kill a werewolf, but it works all the same.


	2. moon after yule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The full moon of January, 1979, in which we meet the characters, and the story begins.

**MOON AFTER YULE**

****

**.**

**January 13th 1979**

**THE HUNTING GROUND**

**#174**

The Pack ran. 

Moonlight flashed on his eyelids; the wind brushed through his fur; the rumble of thundering paws sounded through the night. Howling, long and clear and full of the joy of freedom, rang around them. Pounding, beautiful energy like flowing water rushed through Remus's body, and as he ran he felt muscle and fur and four legs, and it was the only thing he had truly wished for all month. 

After a few miles, the Alpha came to a halt and the wolves looked to him with clear expectations: _where’s the meat, Greyback? Where’ve you taken us to?_

They’d stopped on a hill overlooking a valley, mountain grass swaying beneath them. The round moon shone on the horizon, risen only two hours ago, illuminating a village that sat smugly between this hill and the opposite peak. A few lights glinted from windows, but the noise was such that most of the inhabitants must have been at the pub. Every wolf in the pack was panting, tongues lolling, eyes shining, breath curling like dragonsmoke in the cool night air. Remus looked at the Alpha the same as everyone else did, wondering what was in store for them this month. 

Greyback, with his silver-flecked fur, gave a curling grin, his tangerine eyes flashing in pleasure. He turned, trotting along the plateau for a moment before plunging headlong, scrambling down the steep sides of the hill.

The Pack followed.

They were at the bottom of the valley in minutes, leaping over a shimmering stream and sipping through the cobbled village streets. Silent as shadows, fast as lightning. In this form, they were so much more than wolves.

The local pub seemed to house half the village, talking and laughing and singing, and Remus started salivating at the smell of such an abundance of meat, but Greyback shepherded them behind into an alley where they wouldn’t be seen by any of the patrons. 

All the way through the village they slid until they stopped in a copse of trees near the edge. Everyone could see the hunger in Greyback’s eyes, see the drool dripping down his muzzle. 

They had arrived.

Through the trees was a modest cottage, a wisp of smoke escaping the chimney, a sliver of light peeking through the curtains. Remus could smell blood inside and was tempted to charge straight in, but he’d be punished severely for such impulsiveness. Besides, they had to follow the Alpha. 

Greyback, the Alpha in question, looked back over the Pack and raised his nose high. The only noise carried by the night air was a murmur from the far-off pub, and Greyback cut into that still quiet with a hair-raising howl. It was a howl of hunger, of bloodlust; it was a howl of danger, a warning for the doomed inhabitants of the cottage: _we’re coming. The Pack is coming._ It was a noise promising blood and meat. As the last note reverberated through the trees, the wolves spread out, surrounding the cottage with bloodthirsty snarls hovering on their lips. 

With the thrill of the hunt, the tang of promised blood, the bracing air still whirling around his ears, Remus dove in with the rest of them as they smashed through windows, knocked down doors, swarming in like bees to honey. 

In seconds, two bodies lay beside the fireplace and another was being dragged in. These were presumably the couple who owned the house and the grandmother. In the corner, quivering and whimpering, was a boy with eyes bleeding fear. Him, they left for later.

Greyback got the first pick. It took painfully long for him to seize his share, the wolves watching as he devoured the tender human flesh of the young woman. He emerged from her body with blood coating his muzzle and as they watched, he moistened his lips slowly, almost taunting them to go in before he decreed.

Remus almost went for it. The smell was so dizzying now that he couldn’t think of anything else, only the taste of flesh and the yawning emptiness of his stomach. Lightheaded, all he could do was watch as Greyback canted his head, examining each wolf carefully. A string of drool dripped from his muzzle in a puddle on the periwinkle carpet. 

So distracted by the promise of the waiting bodies, when the Alpha finally gave the go-ahead he was a crucial second late, and blocked by a writhing mass of fur and gore. He could merely watch, struggling against the tide, as blood sprayed into their coats, staining their lips, lapped up by quick tongues. Remus just watched as they sank their fangs into the flesh. 

Snarling, growling, he lunged forwards about to nip the wolf in front of his in the flank, but suddenly there were fangs in his neck and he was thrown back. The other wolves, busy with their prize, took no notice. Greyback, however, the wolf who had thrown him, silver fur glinting in the flickering firelight, herded him towards the shivering boy in the corner. 

Time for the Turning.

.

.

**January 14th 1979**

**THE FOXHUNT**

_The Foxhunt_ , the sign read. 

The pub had been difficult to find, hidden in a maze of winding alleys, welcomed by dim lights and drunken hysterics. Once Sirius pinpointed it, he wasn’t sure why he had wanted to at all. A group of cloaked women stood outside with rotting teeth and greying hair, reaching out to him with long yellow fingernails and offering their wares. The windows were steamed up, but inside he could see—and hear—a rather violent brawl going on, swearing and yelling, wands discarded who-knows-where. 

But it was cold, so he entered, forcing the heavy door open and stamping his feet on the mat. A busty barmaid sashayed up to him with a flirty smile on her lips. 

“Hello,” Sirius said. “I’m looking for some friends of mine.”

“I know,” she laughed, low and throaty, before walking deeper into the pub, gesturing for him to follow.

Seated in a booth at the far end of the pub, away from the arm wrestling, was the Order of the Phoenix. Or part of it, anyway. 

Dumbledore, whose white beard was tucked into canary yellow robes that Sirius wasn’t too sure suited the old man at all, nodded at him grimly. Alastor Moody, recently named “Mad-Eye” for the most recent addition to his injuries: a lost eye, replaced by a startling blue one that often whizzed to the back of his head. Emmeline Vance, a woman whose hair reached her knees when it was let down and gave Sirius useful tips for his own locks. Caradoc Dearborn, an older man who simultaneously thought himself to be still in his youth, and to have superiority over Sirius and James. Alice Longbottom, recently married, with a smile that could light the darkest of rooms. Finally, James Potter, a lanky Indian boy who stood when Sirius approached, engulfing him in a strangling hug.

“Been so long, hasn’t it?” said Sirius, who had seen James that morning. 

They sat, and the mood darkened because there was a reason they had gathered, and the Order of the Phoenix wasn’t a cheerful pastime. This meeting had been arranged that afternoon, just for this small group of them, and neither Dumbledore nor Moody looked happy.

“What is it?” Alice asked tentatively. 

Without a word, Dumbledore drew out a newspaper and spread the front page out in the middle of the table. Sirius craned his neck to look. 

_DERBYSHIRE WEREWOLF ATTACK_

_Yet again, the remains of a family have been found on the morning after the full moon. The mutilated bodies of Nigel (43), Gretel (35) and Cynthia (72) Adamson were found in their Derbyshire cottage the morning after the event, when the milkman found the door hanging open and windows shattered. Aurors are still searching for the Adamsons’ child, Jake (8), whose body has not been found._

_Readers are encouraged to report suspicious activity and signs of werewolf action. Advice and necessary precautions against werewolf attacks can be found on page 4. More information on the murder of the Adamson family can be found on page 7._

“Another one?” James asked when they had all finished reading. “That’s … what, one every month?”

“Nearly,” Moody said. “And they’re all muggle-born families.”

Sirius looked up. “You don’t mean…”

The look on Moody’s face was grave. “That’s exactly what we mean. Voldemort is in contact with the packs.”

“Then … what are we doing to stop it? It’s been going on a while—aren’t the Aurors doing anything?” Emmeline said, voice low as if afraid of eavesdroppers, despite the silencing charms around their booth. 

Moody growled under his breath. “The Minister’s restricting us. As the Order, we'll help, but officially I’m allowed to put two men on the job—no more, no less. I was hoping … James? Sirius?”

James, ever eager to help in any way, immediately agreed. “Of course, Sir.”

Sirius, however, hesitated. Werewolves were vicious, and it was usually more senior Aurors assigned to serial killings like these, especially when Dark creatures were involved. But the idea of danger had never deterred him before, and this was helping all of Wizarding Europe from Voldemort’s wrath. “Alright,” he said. “Where do we start?”

.

.

**January 14th 1979**

**THE FIELDS**

It was difficult to recall the events of the full moon, but Remus always remembered more than most. He had woken the morning after with a piercing headache, scratches on his chest, his ear missing the lobe, and his mind clouded with post-moon bleariness. A handful of other wolves were up too, staggering to their feet in much the same state as him. 

This point had clearly been planned, because clothes were stashed in a nearby hollow tree trunk, and they dressed, washing the blood off themselves in a nearby stream. The water was frigid but fresh, and Remus sighed in relief as it cooled his aching ear (or lack thereof).

After a few of the more critical injuries were dealt with, Greyback yelled some sharp commands and the Pack, now human and a lot less agile, responded with the usual grumbling, standing unsteadily and following their Alpha through the fields.

Remus first walked with an older man known only as Doc, a term first used by Greyback to mock the man’s past muggle academia.

“Hello, Remus,” he said. 

“Hey Doc. Good moon?”

“Fine. Well, I think so. What about you?”

Remus frowned. “I’m not so sure. Something feels … off.”

“Well, your ear isn’t looking good, is it? As for me, I can hardly remember anything these days. I’m … I’m tired, Remus.”

Doc had never been one for extended conversation or general company, so Remus nodded before moving to stand with Lisa, a girl around his age with straw blonde hair and jaded eyes. 

"Alright, Lisa?" Remus asked.

"Fine," she said. "You?" 

Her familiar East London accent that she’d somehow retained all these years in the Pack warmed his ears—or ear-and-a-half, anyway. 

Remus thought about the niggling feeling in his head that something was off. He thought about his stomach, which still felt achingly empty, and about his ear, which had clearly been nipped by sharp fangs. "Fine," he said as if he meant it. 

Lisa frowned; she knew him well enough to tell he was lying, but didn't ask, because Remus Lupin generally knew the right thing to do. He had that kind of reputation in the Pack—young, strong, intelligent... someone to rely on. Someone who answers the questions. 

The fields were dusted with snow like icing sugar, and the trees stood like lone figures on the horizon. Mountains rose in every direction, grassy peaks with white caps at the summit. The air was crisp and the clothes they'd stored weren't nearly enough to block out the January chill. After only ten minutes of hiking, Remus's hands shook and the tip of Lisa's nose was red.

They walked in near silence for an hour or two until they reached an abandoned flint cottage on a mountainside. Boards were hammered across the windows, but through the gaps, Remus could overhear the clumsy voices of the pups rising above each other in excitement as they heard the arrival of the pack. 

One girl had been bitten nearly right through her arm, and a boy was sobbing in the corner, but soon enough they were on their way again, the cubs huddled at the back of the group, complaining about aching legs and frosty toes.

As he walked, Remus tried breathing smoothly. The more steps he took, the more the fog in his head receded, and soon enough he had a rugged outline of the events of the night before. And he didn't relish what he recalled.

Greyback had been questioning his loyalty for the last few months, probing him with stricter rules, harsher punishments, and more daring orders.

As for this order… had he done it? That’s what Remus needed to know—had he bitten the boy? The child in question was being carried by one of the stronger men at the front, the crescent wound on his shoulder seeming to grin tauntingly at him. 

He wasn't sure if he wanted to have done it or not. If he had, he would bear the responsibility of turning this boy into a werewolf, doomed to suffer poverty. If he had refused, then as soon as Greyback regained his memory, there would be hell to pay. 

Hell.

.

.

**January 15th 1979**

**THE CRIME SCENE**

The crime scene was covered in anti-muggle wards; Sirius shivered as he felt them brush over him. The cottage, even from far off, looked a wreck. The windows were smashed in, the garden trampled, the door swinging on a single hinge. Broken plant pots lay dejected on their sides, spilling soil onto a kicked-up lawn. Everything was coated in a thin layer of glittering frost.

James stood beside him, a grim expression twisting his mouth, and together, without the need to converse, they stepped inside. Forensic investigators were surveying the place, looking for signs of magic or for the fur of the wolves in the hope they could identify any culprits. The room in which the action seemed to have taken place was untouched. 

A woman stood in the corner, a clipboard in hand. She smiled as they entered. “Melissa Mandrake, from the Werewolf Capture Unit.” she said, “You must be the Aurors?”

“Yeah,” James said, shaking her hand. “I’m James Potter, and this is Sirius Black.”

As expected, she froze for a moment at the surname, but continued when he held her eyes in a ready stare. “I’d be happy to take you through the information we’ve gathered so far if you’d follow me.” 

They did, into what appeared to be a bedroom. “The older woman, Cynthia Adamson, was here, presumably reading,” she said, pointing to a fallen book. “She was killed in this room, or at least mortally wounded.” At this, she pointed to a puddle of dried blood on the floor. “The blood is confirmed to contain the saliva of a werewolf. She was towed through the hallway, as you can see by the blood, and taken into the living room, where the rest of the family—her son, daughter-in-law and grandson—were. The three adults were slaughtered and eaten by the wolves before the fireplace.” By this time, she’d steered them back into the living room, and Sirius looked closer. 

The carpet was stained with blood so that he couldn’t see the original colour beneath it, but the remains of the bodies had been removed. Translucent images—three-dimensional, of course—of the bodies lay in their place. The corpses themselves … from what the images showed, they had been torn apart completely and nearly all eaten. Only the slightest bits of meat clung to the three piles of bones, and the … well, the organs … lay amongst them. 

“If you’d look over here, Mr Black—"

“Sirius, please.”

Melissa Mandrake continued, “If you’d look over here, Sirius, Mr Potter, this is where Jake was. Because of the lack of control that children have with their magic, we can detect the faint traces of fear-induced sparks right here that show he crouched in the corner by the piano. Do you see? Anyway, right here in front of him, there was clearly a scuffle either before or after he was Turned.”

James frowned. “Can we assume he was definitely bitten? Not dragged off and eaten, or escaped?”

“Almost certainly. An entire pack was captured just four months ago—did you see in the news?—and among them, we found ten lost children who we had assumed dead. The packs take the children to become the next generation.”

“That—" Sirius started.

“Disgusting, I know,” she said, making a face. 

“I was about to say it made sense. How else would they get more werewolves? Besides, my mother always told me if I didn’t behave she’d give me to the werewolves.”

Melissa looked appalled. James just snorted.

“Do you have any idea what pack it was?” Sirius asked.

She frowned. “From the fur we’ve found, and the particular state and positions of the bodies, we’re quite sure it was Greyback.”

James winced. “Isn’t he…?” He trailed off.

“Yes. I suppose you’ve seen him quite often in the papers and heard rather a lot about him in the Auror office. Fenrir Greyback is quite infamous.”

“Thanks, Miss Mandrake. We should get going. Lots to do, you know. C’mon Sirius.”

Taking one last look at the mutilated bodies of the Adamsons, and another at the corner where Jake had crouched, Sirius followed James out of the swinging door.

.

.

**January 16th 1979**

**THE DEN**

Cracking wallpaper over mouldy walls. Nails poking through the floorboards. A bare bulb hanging from the ceiling by a single wire that produced a measly amount of flickering illumination. The cold seeping through the thin glass of the window. 

The room was dingy, but at least it was a room. Last month, Greyback took them to an abandoned quarry in the Peak District, and they had slept every night with slate poking into their backs and legs, the cold living among them like part of the family. This month, it was an old Victorian workhouse on the outskirts of a small Yorkshire town. They were housed in the old living quarters for the paupers who had worked here, the rooms obviously fitted with electricity since then. Remus shared a room with six other men, all older than him but none stronger, bar Emil Cadd, short but rippling with muscle. Cadd spent most nights out anyway, hunting muggles in the neighbouring villages, returning with blood dripping from his fully-human jaws. There was no official Beta, but if there had been, it would be Cadd, whose voice would commonly ring throughout whatever den they had adopted that month, yelling orders which were received and followed, as if he had a divine right.

Remus was unpacking his few possessions when he felt a breath of air on his neck. The door creaked as it opened, and a distinct heavy footstep landed in the room. Remus turned. 

Fenrir Greyback stood in the doorway. His glittering dark eyes pinned Remus where he stood. “Lupin,” he growled.

Remus straightened a little, inclining his head slightly in respect. He kept his eyes fixed to the Alpha. “Greyback.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other wolves from his room slipping out the doorway, Cadd catching Remus's eye as he left, his lips forming the word _‘goodbye'._

“Three nights ago was the full moon,” Greyback said, moving a little closer. “It took me a while to realise why I was so angry, and why the boy’s blood was in _my_ mouth, but soon enough I remembered.”

His voice was a low growl, deep and dark, and when Remus heard it, he felt like his own grave was being dug between them, ready for him to step in.

Greyback took a step forwards. “I’ve done so much for you, boy. Even as a child, I gave you an important role in the Pack. You fill the role, Lupin, but nothing beyond it. You may be decent in the bedroom, but what are you outside it? Worthless—where is your hunger, eh? Where’s the bloodlust, or at least some simple loyalty? You’re a disgrace, Lupin. Still a pathetic pup at your age. You should learn to follow orders.” 

Remus didn’t dare blink. 

“Why didn’t you do it? Why didn’t you bite the fucking boy?” His voice suddenly amplified. Remus flinched. Greyback was standing so close to him that his rancid breath—reeking of meat and blood and gore—tickled his cheeks. 

Remus swallowed his fear and disgust “I couldn’t.”

“What?” Came the growled return, the exhale hot against Remus's skin as the man’s dirty fingers crept up his throat.

“I said, I couldn’t do it.”

In a moment, he was rammed against the wall, Greyback’s long yellow nails digging into his neck. The older werewolf pressed his lips to the shell of Remus's ear. “WHY?”

His throat was blocked, but he managed to choke out: “What do you mean?”

“I mean, have I not _prepared_ you enough for this, Lupin?” He could feel Greyback’s fangs on his throat now, pinching slightly. “Why aren’t you ready?” Greyback’s saliva was dribbling down from his jaw, and he whined, barely stopping himself from closing his eyes. The Alpha was biting gently into Remus's neck, drawing blood that ran hot and red down into his shirt. He scratched until a vertical line ran from ear to collarbone, seeping more blood that he lapped up with his sandpaper tongue, sucking every little drop with a moan of pleasure. 

“I—" The syllable was riddled with strain.

Greyback grinded his hips into Remus’s, growling deep in his throat. His erection dug into Remus’s thigh. “I’m not averse to killing you now, Lupin. I could cook you and share you out to the others. I’m sure even the pups would welcome some more meat on the table.” 

Remus just whimpered. His neck was bleeding fire. “Please…”

“You want me to stop?” Another violent thrust of the hips. He bit down.

A cry from Remus. A moan from his Alpha. _“Yes.”_

Greyback’s teeth still dug deep into his neck, painfully warm and smooth. Heat ran down his collar. “Do it then. Next month. Prove your worth.”

“Yes.”

The older wolf pulled back and stepped away, and all at once the heat receded, the wound was left open, the feeling of suffocation ceased. He licked a coat of blood of his lips, smiling with fangs bared. “You better be ready, Lupin. You better.”

Then he punched him in the face, sending Remus flying back into the wall, groaning and holding his cheek where a dull pain lay. His head spun, the room swimming in circles. Greyback punched him again and again until he was on the floor, and the world was spinning and the lights were dimming and then the Alpha was kicking him in the side, causing his stomach to lurch, and he was striking him what felt like a hundred times until tears streamed down Remus's cheeks and he was begging, begging…

“Please…” he sobbed. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it. I will. I promise. _I fucking promise!_ ”

Greyback stood above him, Remus's blood drying on his chin. He smiled once more, murderous eyes glittering maliciously. “Please and…”

“Thank you,” Remus whimpered, curled up on the floor, bleeding into the floorboards, blubbering like a pup. “Thank you. Thank you, Alpha.”

.

.

**January 17th 1979**

**THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE**

Sirius paused on the doorstep, straightening his cloak on his shoulders and brushing the dust off his trouser leg. He straightened his face until his expression was as vacant as he could manage, and knocked twice. 

After a moment, the door was unfastened from the inside. A slight figure, reaching just above Sirius's knees, scowled at him from below a long nose and little hooded eyes. He turned to face the corridor behind him, and screeched, “Master Sirius is here!”

Without a word to Kreacher, Sirius strode inside, promptly adopting the arrogance and briskness of a member of the Black household. He swept off his cloak and pitched it into the air, where it was seized by a wind charm and floated into the cloakroom. Underneath, he wore his second best robes, as was expected every week when he returned to his family home. 

Regulus appeared on the staircase just as Sirius was straightening his tie. Their relationship had crumbled over the last few years until their looks were haughty and their words brusque.

“How is she?” Sirius asked after a moment of hesitant silence between the brothers. 

“Awake,” said Regulus. “Better than last week.”

With a nod, Sirius pushed past his brother on his way up the stairs, barely sparing him a glance. He climbed until he reached the fourth floor of five, and paused on the landing. His mother’s door, as always, looked more imposing than it should. It was mahogany, with a simple nameplate reading _W. Black_ , and a rune carved into the wood itself. The latter was a recent addition, and Sirius took a moment to process it. It was gouged with a shaky hand, the symbol created to ward off enemies. He wondered who had carved it: Walburga herself, or Regulus, whose own mental health seemed to be declining nearly as fast as his mother’s. 

With a sigh, he gave a sharp knock, waiting for the standard _“Come in!”_ before entering. 

His mother was propped up on her pillows, sitting straight like a queen reclining on her throne. Her dark hair held not a single strand of grey and was splayed around her, wreathing her pale face like a mane. Her glittering eyes clung to more life than Sirius had seen in them for a long time, and her chin was tilted slightly again, making her seem more confident and arrogant than ever. _“Better than last week”_ was an understatement. 

Sirius could remember the last time he had stood here, looking upon his mother’s weak frame. She had looked like a bird with broken wings—delicate and utterly useless. Her hair had hung limply over her face, which had been beaded with sweat. Her body had been wracked with constant shivers, and her eyes spun left to right to left to right as if searching for an enemy. She hadn’t uttered a word to him, just muttering deliriously, and Sirius had almost— _almost_ —felt sorry for her. 

“Good afternoon, Sirius. Finally decided to grace us with your presence, have you?” Her voice was loud and condescending. Sirius nearly sighed in relief. 

“How are you, Mother? You seem well.”

“Do not treat me like an invalid, boy. You’d think your mother taught you nothing of the way to speak to a lady. Sit up straight!” She snapped, reminding Sirius of how she had been before the death of her husband. Cold, commanding, and ever so sharp. 

He straightened his spine on impulse, though he knew his mother could do nothing if he refused. Just two years ago, she would have flung hexes at him for such a foolish mistake as to slouch.

“Have you acquired a wife yet?” She asked next, the same question as two weeks ago, and the week before that, and the week before that, and that, and that. 

“No, Mother.”

“It’s time to settle down, boy. To remain a bachelor perpetually would be another disappointment to add to the list for you. You’ll end up like my ghastly brother.”

Sirius nearly flinched when his mother mentioned Uncle Alphard. The man had been his favourite relation and had consistently invited the family to his countryside estate every year, where Sirius and Regulus had flown the broomsticks Alphard gave them across the extensive grounds. Sirius hadn’t seen—or heard from—his uncle in years.

“Naturally, Mother. I’ll look into it.” He wouldn’t, but he said this every week and his mother could be relied upon to forget before their next meeting. 

“Very well. I could draw up a list of potential suitors if you’d like.”

“I can manage.”

She frowned. “And you’ve been invited to the Malfoy’s dinner on the 29th. I told them you don’t live here anymore, but still, they use me to deliver mail to you. I say, what a mess this has all become. Why can’t you just tell me your address, Sirius?”

He shrugged. “I’m never there anyway.”

His mother quieted, and they sat in silence for a while, Walburga staring out of the window and Sirius wondering why he still came here. _Duty_ , of course. It was always about his familial duties. If he was seen to neglect his ill mother, what a scandal it would be. The front page of the Daily Prophet: _BLACK HEIR WAITING FOR MOTHER TO DIE IN ORDER TO CLAIM INHERITANCE,_ or, _BLACK MATRIARCH ON DEATHBED WHILE HEIR ENJOYS NEW JOB_. And the last thing Sirius wanted was to be in the public eye again. Now that the Black family’s dealings in the Dark Arts had calmed down since Orion’s death and Walburga’s incapacitation, Sirius was away from the headlines and any unwelcome attention. 

And of course, unwelcome attention meant the attention of the Death Eaters (most married-off family members or old family ‘friends’), who would surely learn of his high grades in NEWTs, of his duelling skills, and assume he would be honoured to join their hallowed company, just as his cousins had been. 

“Sirius?” his mother spoke.

“Yes, Mother?”

“Have you acquired a wife yet?”

.

.

**January 19th 1979**

**THE HOSPITAL**

Remus groaned. His entire body ached; his neck was prickling unpleasantly, his face felt like a leaden weight was clinging to it, and his stomach and side felt as if they’d been trampled by a pack of wolves. When he opened his eyes, the world danced in dizzying circles and swam with black spots, and a spike of pain impaled his temples. 

“Hey, Remus.” Said a familiar voice. He took a moment to place it as Lisa’s, before wondering why he had taken so long to place it at all, seeing as hers was the only voice he could count on to hear every day. 

He opened his mouth, letting out only another moan, and then a rasp when he tried forming words. He felt cool water lifted to his lips, trickling down his throat. 

“Hey Rem.”

“Hey, Lisa.”

“You passed out. Pain or blood loss, I dunno. Carla ‘ad some wizarding potions stashed under ‘er bed, so we think you’ll be fine. Doc’s been in and out, says e’ll come see you later. Nasty cut, though. ‘ow you feelin'?”

“Eurgh. Awful. Like I’ve been smashed in the head with half a brick and then had several large trees fall on me, and then been attacked by a penguin with a butter knife.”

“Well, you’re certainly feelin’ better.”

“How would you know? ‘S not like you’ve got any medical history.”

“Cos you’re talking like yourself again.”

There was silence for a minute before Lisa spoke again. “How’d you get it?”

“What?”

“The cut.”

Remus shrugged as well as he could while lying down and barely in control of his body. Lisa would understand, but did he want her to? She would never have hesitated to bite the boy. Remus, however, was just soft-hearted, which was not a quality possessed by any of the great werewolves of Britain. A quality which would ultimately bring him failure soon enough.

“Emil 'ad one of ‘is rants again. Said you were long gone. Was it ‘im?”

He snorted. “No. No, I could deal with Emil Cadd.”

She raised a single critical eyebrow, leaning back a bit and suppressing a grin. “So you’ll fight Cadd tomorrow and win, will you?”

“Alright, I couldn’t. But he’d be pretty bloodied up too.”

She laughed. “If you say so. Who then?”

He shook his head.

“Greyback?”

There was no point pretending otherwise, else Lisa would list every wolf in their pack, and Remus would eventually have to say it was _someone_ , and imagine the shame if he accidentally said “yes” when she said the name of one of the five-year-old cubs. With reluctance, he nodded. 

“Why? Why'd the Alpha…?”

He tried to remain nonchalant. “Dunno,” he said, shrugging. “Dominance? _Boredom?_ ”

She sighed. “Whassa matter this time then?”

“It’s like always, Lisa. I’m not contributing enough. I’m not—”

“Not contributing enough? The rest of us aren’t losing all our sleep to ‘im and ‘is sick games. Nearly every night you ‘ave to—”

“Look, Lisa. He can choose anyone to … to do that to. I'm not special or anything. If I’m gone, he'll just move on and start again with someone younger. He thinks I’m not loyal.”

She made a face. “Not loyal. It’s jus’ cos you’re a decent person, ain’t it? Jus’ cos you’re the only decent man in the Pack. ‘Es jealous, ‘e is. ‘E knows you’re too good for the rest of us. ‘S why ‘e tries to dirty you up.”

“Lisa, I don’t—”

“But it’s always you! He’s obsessed! It's just always you, Rem.”

They were interrupted by three sharp knocks on the door. In walked Doc, his clothes tidier than any other wolf’s, his back straighter and smile warmer. “Remus.”

“Hey, Doc.”

He sat, perching on the end of the bed. “How are you feeling? You’ve got a nasty concussion.”

“Fine.”

Doc, bitten as a young adult, brought manners and education to the entire pack. For those who wanted it, he occasionally ran lessons—reading, writing, muggle life—and for years Remus had attended every one. Spending all that time with Doc, he had picked up the Queen’s English (or something resembling it) and as many manners as he could deal with in the pack environment. The man was a father figure and a teacher to every cub that grew up in the Pack. 

Greyback, of course, despised him. A man who bore the news of the world outside the Pack was one who endangered the Pack’s very infrastructure, challenging Greyback’s own attempt at propaganda. Some wolves had disappeared, never to be seen again, but said to have tried their luck with the wizards. But of course, there was no way of disposing of the man who handled the paperwork. Doc was the only wolf who had the skills to effectively cover their tracks every month when they moved on and also to avoid the all-seeing eye of the Werewolf Registry.

In short, Doc was loved and hated, the kind-hearted genius of the werewolf pack. 

“Anything go on in the last couple days?” Remus asked, confident Doc would have the information, as he always did.

“You’ve missed the first few fights. Most are betting for Cadd, but I reckon Blakesley will step in last-minute and take all again. She may be ancient, but she’s still far too fit and ... well, _enthusiastic_ to be underestimated.”

“Mmm. That’s one word for it.”

Doc frowned. “You’re fighting this month?”

“If I have to. Not against Blakesley, that’s for certain.”

“Do be careful, Remus.” He sighed and said, “Greyback’s angry. I suppose you know why?”

“Mmm.”

“He’ll want to see you as soon as you’re able.”

Remus winced, wondering how long he could pull off being ‘too injured’ without looking weak. “Yeah, alright. When I’m up again.”

.

He went down to lunch that day, sore and shaky. The Pack ate together, gathered in the main room of the old factory. When he walked in, Lisa by his side, the usual yells and grumbles from his family reached his ears, their violent antics his eyes, and the smell of raw meat his nose. 

He didn’t want to know what the meat was. It was just barely cooked and tough-looking, but his stomach complained noisily when he considered missing out. He took a bowl from the cook, who leered at him and giggled when he asked what it was, then headed over to the most private space he could see.

As he sat down against the wall and tucked into his bowl of who-knows-what, he felt Greyback’s eyes on him, scrutinizing him hungrily. 

It would be a long month.

.

.

_INTERLUDE_

_A far-off whispering from the winter breeze through the cedars. The sky broiling with the black smoke that tumbled out of the tall gothic chimneys._

_The Dark Lord sat on his throne, eyes flashing in the feeble light of a chandelier._

_The man—was he a man at all?—knelt at the foot of the great stone chair. “Just one condition, my lord.”_

_A voice like the hiss of a bed of filthy snakes. “And what is that, wolf?”_

_His sickly yellow eyes moved upwards to rest on the snake-like features of the ghastly man. “There is a man I want dead, his invention destroyed, and I would like your help.”_

.

.

**January 20th 1979**

**THE REGISTRY**

"All missing werewolves in the last fifty years and the missing children of victims, please," James said to the man at the Werewolf Registry office.

The man flicked his wand towards the rickety shelves behind him, and in moments a stack of files emerged in a cloud of dust to settle onto the desk.

James winced at the sight of all the papers. "Thanks," he squeaked.

Sirius barked a laugh and clapped James on the back. "This'll be fun, won't it?"

.

.

**January 23rd 1979**

**THE CUBS' ROOMS**

Remus was up again. His neck was bandaged up, and the bleeding had mostly ceased by now. His headache still prevailed. Nothing could be accomplished for the bruising on his side and face, but he borrowed a thick woollen scarf for his neck which blocked out the cold as well as hiding the damage. 

He passed into the cubs' rooms.

“Remus!” Came a voice, and then another and another and another. Soon a small crowd of five-to-ten-year-olds were gathered around his knees, none even reaching half his height. Then again, it was rare for adults to grow as tall as Remus, never mind children. 

“Hello,” he said gently. “How’d the moon go?”

“Good!” declared one boy, Daniel. Dan had been bitten three years ago and was now eight (apparently—no-one but the lad himself was counting), and regarded Remus as his dad, which probably wasn’t healthy at all. “I got Kelly! There was blood and everything!”

Remus winced. “Where’s Kelly now?”

“Next door. Crying. Doc said he’ll have to cut her arm off cos’ it’s infected.” Dan looked almost … proud. _He shouldn't be._ Somehow an eight-year-old boy was proud of causing his friend’s amputation. 

He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Go apologise. Go on!”

Wading through the sea of cute but abnormally violent children, Remus found himself standing over the boy who had been bitten by Greyback the night before. “Go back to whatever you were doing,” he said. “Bloody hell. _These kids._ ”

The boy stared up at him.

“Hello,” he murmured, sitting down beside the boy, leaning against the wall with his long legs folded in front of him. “Are you alright?”

The boy looked terrified. His brown eyes were blown wide and fearful, his skin pale, a scratch on his face still healing. 

“'Course you aren’t. I’m Remus.”

The boy remained silent.

“You don’t have to say anything, but I think you'll find it better here if you do. You should try to make some friends. They’re nice kids, really. A bit bloodthirsty, but that’s … well, that’s to be expected. Honestly, it’s not as bad as you think.” His neck itched as he said it, and he winced at his own lie. “Really, just try talking to someone. Now, let’s try again: I’m Remus.”

The boy frowned for a moment before replying. “Jake.”

“I was terrified when I first got here, too. It gets better. Really, it does.”

Remus shivered from the cold and tried to believe it himself.

.

.

**January 24th 1979**

**THE AUROR OFFICE**

Sirius and James had been poring over a hundred reports, files and maps since they’d investigated the wreck of the Derbyshire cottage. Their shared desk space was covered in papers, flapping every time the office door opened, their quills splitting by the day with the rate they were writing. 

Even so, Moody had to drop by every so often to ensure they hadn’t fallen asleep ( _“CONSTANT VIGILANCE, Black! You can’t be ready for an attack if you’re napping.”_ ) or trailed off ( _“This is an investigation, not a playtime! Stop talking about the quidditch scores and start talking about the murders!”_ ). 

They’d transferred names from the werewolf registry, noting missing children whose parents had been attacked by wolves and disappearing registered werewolves. Now, five days after the full moon, they had produced a list. 

“Recognise any of these, Moody?” Sirius asked his superior.

The grizzled Auror scanned the names for a moment. “Well, Fenrir Greyback of course. A particularly hostile one, he is. That’s the pack you’re looking for?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Frances Lowell. She’s old now, so won’t be one of the big figures. Emil Cadd is tiny—probably half your height, Potter—but he's as rough as you can get. Lorraine Blakesley … absolute maniac. We brought her in once, and she tried to gnaw an Auror’s arm off in human form. Remus Lupin—I met him once, right before he disappeared. His father still works at the ministry. The others… I recognise a few more—Lisa Connolly, Kelly Slater, Cecil Read. There are hundreds of them." Moody sighed, still reading through the names, flicking absently through the lists. "You've done a good job; by the next full moon, we'll be prepared. Look for werewolf activity and try to identify a pattern. We have to work out where the next hunt is."

They were drowning in papers, and Moody was no lifeguard.

.

.

**January 26th 1979**

**THE ALPHA’S QUARTERS**

Remus entered when commanded. 

Greyback had a room to himself. It appeared to have been the factory boss’s office, furnished with a tattered button-back chair, a woodworm-infested desk, and—what seemed like a recent addition, presumably from another room—a sturdy double bed. The sheets of the bed were the same quality as the ones the rest of the Pack had been given—tattered and scratchy and riddled with holes. 

Greyback was sitting in the armchair, eyes fixed hungrily on Remus as he walked in. “You’re recovered?” he growled immediately.

“Well enough,” Remus said, wondering immediately whether Greyback would be gentler if he had said no. But the price for lying was worse than whatever was in store for him tonight, so he shut his mouth to prevent himself from amending his answer.

“Good.”

The Alpha walked out, presumably to take care of some other business before dealing with Remus, so he moved over to slump on the crumpled sheets of the bed, ready for a long wait. 

In fact, it was only a few mere minutes before Greyback returned, and his gaze fell on Remus. He growled deeply as he shut the door behind him. “Did I ask you to move, Lupin?”

“No.”

“No..?”

“No, Alpha. I’m sorry, Alpha.” He scrambled to get up and return to the place he had been standing, but suddenly Greyback was in front of him and was striking him hard across the cheek. He fell back onto the sheets.

“Get up, Lupin. Stand here.” He gestured to a spot in the centre of the room, and Remus hurried to obey. The older wolf stood just behind his shoulder, crooning in his ear, his voice a deep rasp, scraping against the air. “What’s on the menu tonight, little pup? I could fuck you into the wall, Lupin. Or the bed or the floor, or over the desk. What do you think?”

He shrugged, knowing Greyback preferred him to be silent.

In a moment, the Alpha rammed him into the desk, and he made contact with the hard wood, the crash jarring him for a moment. Then Greyback’s hips were grinding against Remus’, his claws scrabbling at buttons and zippers, ripping at the younger man’s clothes with his teeth. 

There were no more words that night, just growls of pleasure and whimpers of pain and the knowledge that there was no way out.

.

.

**January 27th 1979**

**THE DINING ROOM**

As Sirius sat, he registered the faces of the guests at the dinner table. He had consulted the Order about the dinner party at the Malfoy’s, and they’d been ecstatic at the chance to gather some intel. First in the mental checklist was names. There were many faces along the table, and Sirius took in the ones he knew. 

_Evan Rosier_ , his flushed angel’s face as beautiful and captivating as ever. 

_Philip Avery_ , a familiar sneer scrunching his long nose.

_Narcissa Malfoy_ , her golden locks bouncing as she turned her head to look down the table.

_Lucius Malfoy_ , waving around a hand covered in jewelled rings.

_Abraxas Malfoy_ , his cold dead eyes staring into the polished wood table.

_Antonin Dolohov_ , his charming foreign accent snaking through the air like a twirling ribbon.

_Madison Bulstrode_ , digging into her second course of dessert.

_Walden Macnair_ , a man whose stony silence filled more room than any voice could.

_Theodore Nott_ , whose polished smile could blind the most unruffled of witches and wizards. 

_Terence Travers_ , remaining a small presence in the company of more important people.

_Aria Zabini_ , her beautiful mahogany skin and glittering black eyes already attracting several admiring glances from all over the table. (Sirius had long ago decided that she was the only woman he would ever be attracted to.)

_Andrew Selwyn_ , who was definitely trying to cramp Sirius's style with that haircut. 

_Bellatrix Lestrange_ , loud and unafraid to show any man that she was in charge.

_Rodolphus Lestrange_ , trying to escape his wife’s wrath by talking to whoever else was nearby.

_Rabastan Lestrange_ , the quietest of the Lestranges, but certainly not any less sly. 

_Regulus Black_ , looking rather overwhelmed with it all.

In short, Sirius was sitting in a room of Death Eaters or their accomplices, and there was at least another three hours until it would be acceptable to leave. 

_Better make use of it then_ , he thought, already noting the people to ‘accidentally’ encounter once they began to mingle. They’d eaten already—seven courses of flaunted exuberance, cooked to perfection and presented with finesse. With luck, the guests would be satiated to the point of laziness, at which point their tongues would slip, and their secrets given straight to Sirius like late Christmas presents.

Sirius's mind, of course, was still thinking of the werewolf situation, and he had to physically shake himself in order to brush that from is mind—this was a different job, a different skill. He needed to use every ounce of his pureblood upbringing in order to fit in well enough that they were comfortable with him. 

The chime of a champagne glass. The slide of a chair. Lucius was standing, looking up and down the table waiting for silence and attention. 

“First of all,” he said, “Thank you. Thank you all for coming. I do hope you enjoyed the meal, and be aware when we move into the next room there will be more drinks, so there’s nothing to keep you here. Do feel welcome to mingle with everyone else—we’re all friends here, and it would be a shame to see anyone not enjoying themselves on such a lovely evening.” He gave a smile. “Now I must cease my talking; I’m sure you’re all tired of me already. The next room is just through the door to my right.”

There was a general scraping of chairs and a raise in chatter as the room stood as a group, migrating into the next room. 

Endless chatter. Polite conversation. Chumming up to slimy gits. Sirius wanted to retch for all the money wasted on a single serving of the nibbles. Dinner was over, yet people still feasted on the finest caviar and drank glass after glass of champagne, some too tipsy to care how expensive it was. 

Sirius had to hold himself back from another glass—he had to be sober in order to retain enough information and to not give himself away. 

It was at the end of the evening that he heard anything at all. He sidled up behind Regulus. 

“I’m going to head off,” he said quietly.

Regulus gave a quick nod and rejoined the conversation he was part of. 

Sirius left, nodding goodbyes to whoever he passed, saying a quick thank you to Lucius, and entering the corridor that led to the front doors. It was just as he swung his cloak on, as he was about to leave, that he heard hushed voices. 

They came from a room to his left, and the door was slightly ajar, so he pressed against the wall beside it, listening. 

_“...meeting with the werewolves.”_ The first voice was gruff and scraping.

The next, high and brash, Sirius could easily recognise as Bellatrix. _“The Dark Lord will be there himself?”_

_“Yeah. I’ve been invited, too. He’s allying himself with that big pack.”_

_“Where?”_

_“Somewhere in Southern Ireland. Storming the house of some potioneer—Belby? Anyway, it’s some big thing. The werewolves and us Death Eaters … it’s gotta be something big, innit?”_

_“Can we talk on Tuesday, Travers? I’d love to hear more. I’ve been in contact with Greyback myself. I’ve got to be going now, though.”_ Came the sly croon of Bellatrix. _“Rodolphus will want to leave soon. Tuesday, then.”_

Too late, Sirius heard the high-heeled footsteps coming this way and immediately he ripped the door open, throwing himself out and slamming it behind him. He apparated away before Bellatrix could see him.

.

.

**January 29th 1979**

**THE STREET**

Three werewolf cubs, including Kelly with her newly amputated arm, sat next to the bus shelter clutching onto a hat. 

“Please sir,” said Daniel, “Spare some change?”

The man walked on by, briefcase swinging on his arm.

“Madam,” Kelly murmured, “We’re destitute and penniless.” Remus had no idea what the word destitute meant, and neither did Kelly. He gave her an amused smile from where he stood nearby.

The woman skirted around the group of dirty children. 

Remus frowned, looking at the small bag of knuts and sickles he’d nabbed off a group of women going shopping. As he walked past the children, he dropped a knut into the hat, offering them a wan smile.

“Thank you, sir,” said Michael, playing along, “That will go towards a meal for us. You’re awfully kind.”

“We should all be giving money to those in need,” Remus said unnecessarily loudly. “All these selfish people walking past should be ashamed.”

As he continued speaking, a woman suddenly relinquished a couple of sickles, and a man with a frustrated expression doubled back holding a few muggle pence. The children smiled. “Thank you, kind Sir, Madam.”

Grinning, Remus walked on. As he passed a mother scolding her misbehaving daughter, he slipped his hand into her coat pocket and snatched a purse, replacing it with a sheaf of papers about the same weight. It was all in the speed and fluidity, speed because she might notice if not, and fluidity so that anyone watching would assume nothing was out of the ordinary. Remus walked calmly onwards as if he hadn’t just stolen her week’s wages. 

He lingered on the street corner, pretending to be observing the clothes on display in the window, but he was really regarding a man nearby who had just paid for his fruit at a market stall with money from his bulging left pocket.

Curls of sandy hair hung at the top of his vision and he wondered if he should cut it again, quickly scrapping the idea when he remembered the shoddy job he’d done last time. Maybe he could convince Lisa to do it for him. He doubted she’d comply.

As he thought of her, the blonde werewolf appeared at his left, looking into the window like he was. “You lookin’ at ‘im?” she asked. 

“With the blue coat?”

“Yeah. Stuffed pocket.”

“I can distract him.”

“Sure.”

Remus turned from the shop window and started wandering down the street, looking around with wide eyes as if the sights were new to him. When he neared the man, he frowned up at an older, grander building, turned to the man and said, “Excuse me?”

The man looked up. “Yes?”

He cleared his throat, clipping his accent until he sounded like a posh student. “Do you have any idea what that building is? It looks awfully impressive for a street like this.”

“I’m afraid I don’t live here; I’m travelling with my wife. Though I’m certain the shopkeeper would know if you wanted to ask him—" _Bumbling fool._

He let himself smile as he spotted Lisa'a retreating figure. “Yes, of course. I’ll do just that. Thank you, sir.”

Walking off at a relaxed pace, Remus grinned. Another bulging bag of either pounds or galleons (you can never be sure in mixed wizard and muggle towns nowadays) in his—well, Lisa’s—pocket. 

He rejoined with Lisa. “Pink heels?”

“Pink ‘eels.”

.

.

**January 31st 1979**

**THE MAP ROOM**

Maps, stuck with pins of different colours, with photographs and notes stuck around the borders, lead to numerous locations with red string. 

“Devon twice,” Sirius murmured, “Somerset, then Berkshire, Gloucestershire, Radnorshire, Merioneth, Flintshire, Staffordshire, Derbyshire, now Derbyshire again.”

James came to the same conclusion he did. “North,” he breathes. “They’re going farther north every month, right up along the west coast. Where’s next?”

Sirius frowned. “Looks like it could be Lancashire or Yorkshire, but Nottinghamshire’s a possibility … even Lincolnshire. We’ll need to look for more similarities between the attacks before we can hazard a guess. We can’t make a mistake, James. We’ve only got one shot at this and twenty days to get it right.”

James was already searching through the piles of paper for the reports on each attack. “We better get started then.”

.

.

**February 2nd 1979**

**THE BASEMENT**

They’d found an appropriately deep basement under the factory. It had clearly been used as a storeroom, but after half an hour’s work the Pack had cleared it out, and they stood in the dark chamber. Almost the entire disjointed family of the Pack was gathered in groups around the room. 

Emil Cadd flashed a grin that revealed every one of his rotten teeth. “Perfect,” he hissed into the darkness. “Who’s in tonight?”

A man Remus knew as Cecil stood up. “I’ll do it.”

The basement filled with sound as he stepped into the centre of the room. There were some playful jeers and a few shouts of encouragement for Cecil, who was one of the more recent members of the Pack, but still a year or two older than Remus.

Remus stood with Lisa in the corner as he usually did, choosing not to join the conversation or the incoming fight as he didn’t maintain a desire to be torn to pieces or be shamed. Instead, the two of them watched, usually picking opposite sides and betting against each other, cheering the other wolves on as they got their paws dirty.

Cadd looked around, eyes catching Remus’s. He tried to pull further into the shadows but before he had the chance, Cadd growled, “What about Lupin? Come on, boy. You haven’t fought in a year, at least.”

Suddenly Cecil seemed to be taller, the shadows murkier, Cadd’s eyes more feral. Almost the whole Pack was watching. Refusing would be worse than losing. 

“Sure.” The word was casual. The man behind it was not.

Another roar from the surrounding crowd, cheering or jeering for Remus, who was already thinking back to the days when he had been a regular fighter, and a good one too until he’d been challenged by Lorraine Blakesley and had been too proud to back out. His winning streak ended in a pool of blood and days drifting in and out of unconsciousness, followed by a full moon in an old World War II pillbox they’d found to keep the bloodthirsty pack of wolves from hacking him apart even further.

As he pulled off his thick jacket, passing it to Lisa, he briefly wondered whether he was still competent enough. Two years ago, he would’ve beaten the inexperienced Cecil to a pulp, but now, completely out of practice, he worried for himself and for the still-healing bite on his neck. Rip that any deeper, and he’d be in trouble. 

His shoes were off next, and he ran his hands along the dusty floor.

As he straightened, he offered a nod to Cecil. Cecil nodded back.

Bare feet scraping against the harsh surface of the stone. Eyes lit with fire. Sweating palms. Heart beating, beating, beating, awoken by the promise of a fight. 

The crowd fell silent. Some sat, others leaned against the walls, eyes fixed on the two circling wolves. Remus indistinctly heard Emil muttering bets to another wolf, but he barred it out, focusing all attention on Cecil. 

They circled for a moment, eyes levelled on each other, bare feet silent on stone, crouched low, knees bent, muscles tense, and—

Remus pounced, knocking into the shorter body of Cecil, slamming him back into the crowd with his full body weight. The crowd pushed the pair back into the centre of the room, and Remus threw his first punch, hitting Cecil solidly on the jaw. 

The crowd cheered.

The blow knocked Cecil back, and they stood watching each other for another moment before Cecil lunged forward, hands scrabbling for Remus's already injured throat. Sidestepping, Remus lifted a leg and thrust his knee into his opponent’s side, causing him to double over. Before he could recover, Remus was on him, fists flying, nails scratching, hands tearing at his hair. 

Soon enough, he had the other man in a headlock and lowered his mouth to Cecil’s ear. “Come on, Cecil,” Remus growled, “Concede. Just do it. Just fucking do it already.”

With a yell, Cecil freed an arm from Remus's grasp and dug his nails into the bandages that covered his neck. Crying out, Remus stumbled back, barely lifting a hand to his neck before Cecil came at him, claws aimed for his eyes. Remus kicked out again, raising his foot higher so that it connected with Cecil’s stomach, eliciting a pained groan, but the older man continued forwards, throwing himself into a mighty punch that caught Remus's cheek. 

A flash of pain. Remus grunted, but Cecil had been carried forward by his own momentum, and soon enough Remus attached himself to Cecil’s back, dragging him downwards, fingers attacking his throat. Cecil spun, trying to fling him off, but he held on with a vice-like grip. His feet were dangling by Cecil’s knees, and he kicked forwards sharply, bringing the other man crashing to the floor in a heap.

Remus stood above his heaving body as the crowd whooped and cheered. 

“That it, Cecil? You concede?”

“Yeah,” Cecil choked. “Yeah.”

Grinning, Remus held a hand for his fallen opponent and helped him up. “Well fought.”

Cecil spat blood onto the floor and made a face, clutching at his jaw. “Yeah, you too. Well won.”

Cecil staggered over to his friends, who laughed and patted his back as he sat down, while Remus returned to Lisa, who raised an eyebrow. “That was alright,” she said. “You’ve done better.”

He laughed. “What a compliment. Thanks ever so much, your highness, for such high praise I surely did not deserve. A shower would do nicely.”

Lisa laughed. “No such luck, Lupin. The nearest runnin’ water’s down at the river, and it’s bloody freezin’ outside.”

“Eugh. Couldn’t Greyback take us somewhere a bit nicer?” He complained as they started to walk out. 

“What, a five-star muggle ‘otel? That would go well.”

“I jus' meant running water and electricity.”

Lisa smiled wistfully. Behind them, new fighters were being nominated, the cheers from each wolf growing fainter as they climbed the stairs to the ground floor. 

“Come on, I'll replace your bandages. There’s a stove in my room—maybe we can light it and warm up some water.”

Remus smiled gratefully as she led them through the factory. 

“You think you’ll start to fight again?” she asked.

“Dunno,” he said. “I should. Then I’ll be prepared next time I’m forced into it. I wouldn’t want to be put against someone when I’m not prepared.”

“Like last time?”

“Like last time.”

They passed identical doors along identical corridors, passing no-one. All the older wolves were downstairs, enjoying what little entertainment there was in this place. The lone person who never ventured into the cellars was Fenrir Greyback, who spent all day languishing in his room, periodically taking other wolves—commonly Remus—in for a little ‘fun’. The Alpha presided over his pack, never stooping to their level, never taking the chance of losing a bet or a fight. If he was beaten, it could be seen as a challenge to his leadership.

Lisa stopped at a door like any other, forcing it open and beckoning him in. She lugged a box from under her bed and sat, patting the sheets beside her for Remus to do the same. He did, and as she peeled off his bloodied bandages, she started to speak:

“Do you ever wonder whether it would've been better out there?”

Remus frowned, tilting his head to the side as she dabbed at his wound with a cloth. “What do you mean?”

She stopped what she was doing, staring out the window as if she meant what she was saying. “I mean … if ‘e’d left us. As pups. Would we survive with the wizards?”

“He says—"

She shifted her eyes to him, wide and believing. “I know what ‘e says. I know ‘e says they ‘ave their ‘tame wolves’, who don’t hunt, who live in their society, who everyone treats like the dirt on the bottom of their shoes, but is that true? Could a wolf survive every moon, never to ‘ave a pack or a huntin’ ground, never to bathe in the light of the full?” 

“I reckon it’s true. They hate us enough to do that.”

Leaning forwards, she spoke as if she’d thought too long and too hard about it all. “But would we be better off? Better off without ‘aving to hide like this, in places with no runnin' water, never enough food, being attacked or … or repeatedly assaulted by our own Alpha.” She ran a finger down the wound on his neck. “Would we not be better alone? We could get jobs and money. Remus, we could build a life—”

“No. They wouldn’t allow it. You don’t understand how much they… how much they _hate_ us, Lisa. We’re all alone. It’s us and them. Wolf and wizard don't mix.”

“Could they not learn?” Her hands were still on his neck. 

Remus leaned out of her reach. “Look, if I met the Minister of Magic, I’d kill him. I’d rip him apart with my bare hands. Him and all his werewolf-hating colleagues. Who knows what Cadd or Greyback or Blakesley would do? They’ve made life hell for us, for every werewolf, even their own bloody tame wolves. They just … they just hate us, and we hate them, alright? It’s never gonna happen.”

“But…”

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, Lisa. If it hasn’t happened already, it never will.”  
.

.

**February 4th 1979**

**THE POTTERS’ PLACE**

Euphemia’s face lit up when she saw him. 

“Sirius! James said you’d be coming over soon! You’re looking as charming as always, of course.”

Her dark eyes crinkled at the edges when she smiled and spread her arms to engulf him in a hug. 

He managed to groan a rather muffled “Thanks, Mum,” before his face was pressed tighter to her shoulder.

“Is Peter not with you? I haven’t seen that young man since he left school. He’s not struggling, is he? Let him know we’re always here. He should know that.”

“Haven’t seen him in a while, actually. Me and james think he could be trying to get out of it all, run away to France or something.”

She tutted. “Poor boy.”

When he was eventually let into the house, he was greeted by the familiar smell of Euphemia’s legendary curry and the cutting _MEOW_ of the family cat, Grunnion (named after Alberic Grunnion, inventor of the dungbomb, naturally).

Sirius grinned. “Alright, Grunn?”

Euphemia, ahead of him, sighed. “Don’t encourage him. He hasn’t stopped screaming for weeks now.”

They continued into the living room, where Fleamont smiled from his place in his armchair.

“Doing the crossword, Dad?” Sirius asked, walking over and perching on the arm. The paper was held in his hands, a pen in his mouth, a look of concentration set in every line of his face. 

“Yes.” Fleamont mused. “Did you learn anything in class between all those pranks?”

He laughed. “Perhaps.”

“ _Transfiguration spell causing the growth of antlers on the head of the victim. _”__

__“Oh. I used this in fourth year…”_ _

__Just then, a knock came at the door, and in strode James. Behind him stood Lily, who was much meeker in her entrance, smiling in turn at Mrs and Mr Potter, and then pulling a face at Sirius._ _

__“James!” said Euphemia, “Lily! We didn’t expect you until tomorrow. Is everything quite alright?”_ _

__James grinned, a slightly mad look in his eyes, his hair looking a little tamer than usual, his smile a little brighter, the bags under his eyes shallower. “Yes. Fine. I need to talk to Sirius about something.”_ _

__“You mean _… work?_ ”_ _

__“Yes. Work.”_ _

__Mrs Potter, knowing exactly what work meant, sighed and walked back into the kitchen, presumably to tend to her curry. Lily took the place Sirius vacated and leaned over Mr Potter’s shoulder. “Anteoculatia, I think. Seven down.” She muttered. “ _A - N - T - E - O - C_...”_ _

__Sirius followed James, who was practically skipping into the corridor._ _

__“James?”_ _

__“Sirius.” James was full-on beaming. “I was talking to Lily, and she worked it out.”_ _

__“What do you mean? What did she work out?”_ _

__“The attacks. There’s a connection.”_ _

__._ _

__

__._ _

__

__**February 6th 1979** _ _

__**THE FOREST** _ _

__They were on the way to work. That’s how it happened, every morning. Every werewolf was woken by the shouts of the others, and they trudged in a bedraggled cluster through the forest to the adjacent town, shaking off the early-morning slumber with a walk through the frosted woods._ _

__Those who didn’t go to town were obligated to hunt with Greyback, catching various animals (and the odd child) for supper each night._ _

__Remus, as usual, was with Lisa, as well as a couple of the younger ones, who had dubbed the two of them as the most likely to offer protection from the likes of Cadd and Greyback._ _

__The atmosphere was both amicable and tense, as it usually was with the Pack. They were a family, sure, but certainly a dysfunctional one. Everyone knew everyone’s names (just about), but there were petty arguments and long-lasting feuds within their tight-knit group, like a class of squabbling primary school children._ _

__Squabbling, for sure. Remus never got on with the others too well. Cadd and Blakesley and the rest of the higher-ups always smirked when he passed, murmuring about ‘Greyback’s little fuckboy’ and laughing like crazed hyenas._ _

__Here, in the tranquility of the forest, it was unmissable when the mood shifted—there was a murmur, descending into silence, and the whole forest seemed to freeze as if playing a game of musical statues. A tremor shuddered through Remus's body, and he could almost feel the temptation coming from the front of the Pack—was it Emil making that hungry growling noise? Was that Lorraine’s breathing going deadly still? Then everything moved again, the Pack converging upon a pair of struggling figures in muggle clothing._ _

__Snarls and growls, a flurry of nails and teeth, hard punches, a scream. Through the mass of scrabbling bodies, Remus glimpsed the figures again, just two Muggle children, crying and screaming amidst it all. There were many more like him hanging back at the edge of the Pack, reluctant to join in._ _

__Briefly, as he watched them pound the muggles, Remus wondered what made him different. He’d spent many a night sorting through his memories, considering _him_ and _them_ and everything in-between. What was it that made him reluctant to hurt, to kill, to bite? Was it the lingering whispers of his long-ago childhood—the impression of a smile, a gentle caress of his brow, tinkling laughter accompanied by the soft haze of a summer’s evening—or his life in the Pack? He had joined and was immediately spotted by Greyback … was it the steadily more intimate relationship with the Alpha that meant he had never hero-worshipped the older wolves, meaning he had never given in to the primal urges to be accepted and therefore never felt the need to be so violent? For the same reasons, he had always remained a loner, not following the Pack in situations like these. _ _

__For whatever reason, he knew this was wrong. Should he do something? Should he stop them?_ _

__Remus turned away, wiping the disgust off his face with a shaking hand._ _

__

__._ _

__

__._ _

__

__**February 7th 1979** _ _

__**THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES** _ _

__The most boring room in the Department of Mysteries was decidedly this one. Sirius and James had been led through rooms painted in every shade of red, to little corridors with the floor made of bone, to rooms in which there had been no sound. Yet here they were, in … an office._ _

__The Head of the Department of Mysteries (whose name was as of yet unknown to the two Aurors) sat in front of them, shuffling through some paperwork and taking a sip of his far-too-milky tea._ _

__“So,” he said, “You have managed to find this connection.”_ _

__James stated: “It was my wife, actually—”_ _

__“Yeah,” Sirius interjected, “We did.”_ _

__Looking rather affronted, James asked, “Is it … is it alright? I mean, is it true?”_ _

__The man frowned and looked up from the papers. “It most certainly is. This werewolf pack has been attacking the Department of Mysteries employees. We can deduce that the motive isn’t to find out any of our mysteries, due to the efficient killing and their lack of ability to hold back and ask the questions, so it seems they want something to be hidden from us, something stopped. They want one of our secrets kept secret.”_ _

__Sirius leaned forward eagerly. “Which one?”_ _

__The man sighed, raising an eyebrow. “I may be Head of the department, Mr Black, but do not think I know everything that goes on here and don’t expect me to tell you even if I did know. We will conduct a search, but we may never find the answer; the Department of Mysteries is a maze of different objects. It could be any one, or any word in any piece of paperwork, or any whispered story told here, or any prophecy or spell.” He paused, taking another sip of his tea. “Good day, sirs. You have my luck in your investigation.” And he went back to his paperwork, not giving them another glance._ _

__._ _

__

__._ _

__

__**February 9th 1979** _ _

__**THE FACTORY FLOOR** _ _

__They gathered in the main room of the old factory, still littered with the odd piece of a Victorian machine—a cog in the corner, a piece of metal on the floor, an abandoned leather shoe—and building dust on every surface. The floor was rotted where rain had leaked through the hole in the roof and leaves built where they had blown in through the smashed-in windows. Remus wondered, again, why their rooms had been done up at all … what purpose would anyone have to refurbish rooms but not the main space? Forgotten thoughts of the past, he supposed. Unfinished business, a beautiful building left to crumble._ _

__Greyback stood at the head of their crowd, balancing precariously on an old desk he had found, a satisfied grin on his face. He stomped hard to capture everyone's attention._ _

__“My Pack!” he said once every eye was on him. “Another moon is coming. Only three days now and we can hunt again!”_ _

__There were a few halfhearted cheers._ _

__“We have found a suitable target that will allow us to expand our Pack more than ever.” Greyback leered at them, pausing while they looked on expectantly. “There is an Orphanage barely five miles from here, owned by one of our enemies who lives in the house two doors down. The Pack will split, one headed by me, and the other by a wolf of my choosing. _Every_ child in the orphanage must be Turned.”_ _

__Remus shivered involuntarily, and he heard several intakes of breath. On the other side of the room, he glimpsed Cadd with a few of his lackeys, grinning hungrily, eyes alight with anticipation. As Remus looked back at Greyback, he found the Alpha’s apple cider eyes on him._ _

__“Lupin will lead the orphanage raid.” His name rolling off Greyback’s lips made the word sound dirty. “I want him to be watched—make sure he’s the one to Turn some of them.”_ _

__He masked his face to fight the turmoil underneath. By ‘proving himself’, he had expected maybe one kill, but leading half of the Pack? Turning dozens of children?_ _

__“To the house with me, I want Blakesley, Johnston…”_ _

__Greyback’s voice faded into white noise as Remus started imagining himself in six nights time—where would he be? Either triumphant or dead._ _

__The noise of the room was overwhelming, the excited or disappointed comments spinning around, jealous complaints containing Remus's name, growing louder and louder until a monster of sound permeated the room, and it was too much for Remus, who _couldn’t_ lead older and stronger wolves. He wasn’t too keen on the kill itself, waking to remember the light fading from an innocent person’s eyes, feeling their flesh heavy in his stomach. But he would do it. He had in the past. But being in charge of deaths was nothing to being responsible for turning a child’s life into whatever this was. He dreaded the waxing moon more than he had ever done before, wishing he could drag his heels and make some stupid excuse. But he had to. Of course, he had to—failure wasn’t considerable. _ _

__Greyback approached him, yellow teeth bared in a snarling smile. His tone was low, as if somehow it would make his words less cruel. “Are you prepared, Lupin? Ready to prove yourself? And remember: if you fail, we’d all welcome some fresh meat on the table.” He grinned wider, fangs bared. “And I’ll see you tonight, eh? Get there a bit earlier, will yeh?”_ _

__And he strolled away, followed by the loving eyes of his followers. Remus sighed, the breath halting in his throat._ _

___Triumphant or dead._ _ _

__._ _

__

__He hesitated on the threshold._ _

__Greyback sat alone, frowning through a sheet of paper on the desk. Remus didn’t know why he bothered; the Alpha couldn’t read._ _

__The older wolf stood when he caught Remus’s scent. They were alone, and yet again Greyback was beside him in an instant, breathing hot air into his neck. “Are you ready, Little Pup?”_ _

__“Yes, Alpha.” His words flowed out like tar, reluctant but already programmed to do so. He remembered the first time he had done this, when his words had stuck in his throat and Greyback had yet to break him in. Between then and now, he’d endured all sorts of horrors: barely holding back tears as his Alpha cut him from hip to ankle and lapped up the blood in a single swipe of his tongue, or shaking incessantly as he was beaten over and over and over for the other man’s sick pleasure._ _

__He knew, after years, what to do and what not to. He knew the only way to end the agony was to bring it to a finish as soon as was acceptable. He knew, most of all, that there was no avoiding this. He till shuddered as he remembered the time as a child he had spent crafting excuses and faking injuries, and the consequences that followed._ _

__When they were interrupted by a smirking Cadd, and Greyback strode out of the room, half-dressed, Remus was left alone on the coarse bedsheets, and he let himself start to cry only when he heard the heavy footsteps disappear around the corner._ _

__Naked, he lay there like a cut of meat on the counter, waiting for the butcher to return._ _

__._ _

__._ _

__**February 10th 1979** _ _

__**THE HOG’S HEAD** _ _

__It was an Order tradition to meet in a pub. Perhaps it was because Dumbledore’s brother owned one so it was readily available or maybe just because the old man liked a good pint of bitter once in a while._ _

__Regardless, this was no exception. Busty barmaids and hooded customers swarmed everywhere, rushing for their Saturday evening pint. Sirius was given a grim smile by Aberforth, who jerked his head towards the back room. Slipping past a weeping banshee, Sirius entered._ _

__The full Order was here, or those who weren’t on mysterious missions anyway. Dumbledore and Moody headed the table as usual, with even Arabella Fig attending, who had clearly managed to drag herself away from her beloved cats._ _

__Taking a seat next to James and Lily, who were squabbling as they customarily did, Sirius observed the whisperings of Moody and Dumbledore, their heads bent together and lips moving to form words at magnificent speed._ _

__“Hello Lil’,” he said, interrupting their argument._ _

__Lily looked up from her glare to greet him. “Hello, Sirius. Y'alright?”_ _

__He shrugged. “Fine. You?”_ _

__“Okay, thanks.”_ _

__“Alright, Jim?” he asked his best friend._ _

__“Alright. Have you seen Pete? Mum was asking about him, and ... well, I forgot about him, in all this going on.”_ _

__He frowned. “She was asking me too. He hasn't been around for a couple of weeks, at least. Why?”_ _

__“He seemed anxious the other day, that’s all. I think his mother’s gone down with some muggle illness. Has to stay home to mind her.”_ _

__“Oh, poor Pete. I do hope she’s alright—do you think if we visited, she’d be able to make those delicious scones again?”_ _

__Before James could answer that, no, Mrs Pettigrew was likely too ill to bake scones for them, Dumbledore stood up and cleared his throat. The table quieted, and Aberforth came in from the other room, standing in the doorway._ _

__“The scouting of the vampire colonies went well, I hear, with minimal danger to our members, and certainly a handful of vampires more reluctant to join the Death Eaters. Patrols around … certain areas were undisturbed, and I’ll let you know what your duties are for these next couple of weeks. Death Eater activity has been limited, as far as we know, so be on guard as usual, and report anything out-of-the-ordinary immediately. You know where to find me._ _

__“Before I go on, does anyone have anything to say to all of us?”_ _

__Sirius spoke up, “Do you want information about … our special project shared with the group, or would you prefer if James and I spoke to you privately at the end?”_ _

__The headmaster hesitated. “I think we shall gather our group from earlier this month to decide our course of action for Monday night. We wouldn’t want any of that information leaked, would we?”_ _

__“Ah,” Sirius said, imagining the precious hours of research slipping through his fingers. “Of course.”_ _

__The rest of the meeting was more instructions and some reports by some of the scouts, then a discussion about various upcoming social events of the Pureblood elite, something Sirius would certainly be involved in once they came around._ _

__When it was all wrapped up and people began to trickle out, Dumbledore asked for the members of the werewolf mission to remain behind. “Thank you, brother,” he said to Aberforth, who gave a nod and returned to the bar._ _

__“Call if you need me, Albus.”_ _

__Eventually, it was just them, and after a comment on Caradoc’s newly groomed beard and Emmeline’s perfect (as ever) hair, they got to business._ _

__“Sirius, James, if you could present your findings.”_ _

__James, after a look at Sirius, nodded. “The attacked families all have Department of Mysteries employees in them. We spoke to the head of the department and discovered … well, not much, but we know they’re trying to cover up some sort of big secret. This is Greyback’s Pack, by the way, who are presumably carrying out Voldemort’s orders. Anyway, due to another pattern in their locations, we know they’re somewhere around Lancashire or Yorkshire. Now, only two of the department’s employees live in that general area. It’ll be one of them.”_ _

__“Is there a pattern for what they were working on at the time, or…?”_ _

__Sirius spoke up bitterly. “The department’s so bloody secret they won’t even tell us enough for us to work that out. This is all we’ve got, and with two days until the full … well, it’ll be tight.”_ _

__“Could we wait for next month? Perhaps we’ll have more information by then, and we’ll know for sure…”_ _

__“No. We can’t. Two is good—who knows how many will live in the next target area? We’ve got a fifty percent chance of getting it right.”_ _

__“Or we could split up,” said Emmeline. “Half on each house. One of the groups will get him.”_ _

__“But that’ll be … what, three or four people against an entire pack?” Alice interjected. “We can’t fight off an entire pack of werewolves on the hunt.”_ _

__Moody tapped a fist on the table. “Show me the locations,” he growled._ _

__They did, and the entire group pored over the map together, pointing out whatever they saw that could be in any way useful._ _

__Finally, it was Caradoc that spoke up. “All the victims have children. Only this employee here has a child. That’ll be it.”_ _

__Sirius looked at him. “Are we absolutely sure? If they find out what we’re doing and we get it wrong...”_ _

__“The Pack are trying to expand, aren’t they? They’re visiting every Department of Mysteries employee every month and taking their children while they’re at it. Two birds with one stone—this secret staying secret, and the Pack constantly growing larger … it’s only common sense they’d go for the one with the children if there was a choice.”_ _

__They sat in silence for a moment._ _

__Moody banged his fist against the table, hard this time. “CONSTANT VIGILANCE! What are we doing here, sitting on our arses and staring into thin air? Let’s get a move on! What’s the plan?”_ _

__

__._ _

__

__._ _

__

__**February 11th 1979** _ _

__**THE ROOF** _ _

__Lisa and Remus lay on the roof. Above them, forming a glittering canopy over Yorkshire, was the inky darkness of the sky, black and cold and unforgiving._ _

__“Sometimes,” Lisa said, “I wish I knew the names of all them stars.”_ _

__Remus, propping himself up on his elbow, looked over at her. “Yeah?”_ _

__She sighed, blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “Yeah.” The moon itself—nearly full—seemed to glow, and Remus couldn’t decide whether it was kind or mocking. “It’s like … it would be bringin’ me closer to ‘em. If I knew. You prob’ly fink it’s stupid.”_ _

__“Nah,” Remus inhaled the night air. “‘S not stupid.”_ _

__“We’re … we’re stuck down ‘ere, is ‘ow I see it. And they’re, like, watchin’ us. They’re lonely. And if we all knew their names, they might be kinder.” The look in her eyes was infectious. Dreaming hopefully at the same time as being shattered into a million pieces of despair._ _

__“Kinder?”_ _

__“Yeah. Don’t they look cruel?”_ _

__They lay in silence for a moment. Their breath clouded, carried away by the slightest breeze. Their eyes were studded with the reflections of the stars. Lisa finally turned her head towards Remus._ _

__“Rem?”_ _

__He turned his head, and suddenly she leant forward, pressing her lips against his. Remus froze in shock as she pressed into him with a sudden passionate movement. His lips were warm for a few startling moments before she pulled away, a new light in her eyes, a smile on her lips._ _

__Lisa leant forward again but Remus pulled back._ _

__“I … I’m sorry,” he whispered._ _

__She looked to the stars again, slumping back against the roof tiles. “No. I thought…” She frowned. “I thought you … well.”_ _

__“I don’t … well, I’m not sure. I’ve never really…” he trailed off, wondering who he was, really. Wondering how he could put this so it wasn’t _weird_. How he could put this and feel comfortable with his own conclusion, while the stars judged above. “I guess I don’t really like girls.”_ _

__“What d’you mean?”_ _

__He shifted uncomfortably, looking away, looking anywhere but Lisa and her piercing gaze. “I mean … I mean the way the others talk about women, I—I’ve just never … well.”_ _

__Lisa’s voice was sharp. “What about men?”_ _

__Blink. “What?”_ _

__“There are some people … well, do you think about men … like that?”_ _

__He frowned, trying to lose himself in the stars. How he wished one of them would fall right now, glowing as it dived, burning holes through his hands and ending him and Lisa and the foreign words between them. But the stars remained where they were. “Yeah, I guess,” he whispered. “Sometimes.”_ _

__“Oh.”_ _

__Sighing, he gave a bitter laugh. “That about sums it up.”_ _

__Still staring into the dark landscape of the Yorkshire countryside, with every vibration of the tiles beneath his fingers, he felt rather than saw Lisa leave._ _


	3. wolf moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginning with the full moon in February, 1979, in which a werewolf is captured.

**WOLF MOON**

.

**February 12th 1979**

**THE ORPHANAGE**

**#175**

After the ripping pain of the transformation, the Pack only had a moment to breathe the night air before the Alpha started nipping at their flanks, urging them on, and soon they were running again, the stars and moon above, the soft ground below, the paw-in-earth, wind-in-fur, canine rush spurring them on. Over hills, across rivers, through forests and around villages, hunting through the Yorkshire countryside, freedom running in their veins. 

Remus joined the amalgamation of bodies, the great tide of wolves ready to feed, the running, pushing, shoving group that were _so ready_ , noses high to catch the scent of blood carried with the wind. Someone howled in joy and they all joined in until the Alpha growled at them, and they were off once more, running and running and running until they were panting, tongues lolling and eyes rolling, paws sore and aching. 

Then the patter of paws stopped. They were here. 

The outskirts of a large town, the windows already dark, streetlamps on and faraway voices drifting on the air. Ahead of them was a larger building, grey bricks and wooden double doors. Remus received a single nod from Greyback, who took his half off towards the house on the corner. His eyes flashed once before his hulking form disappeared into the night.

Looking over his group, he sat high as their temporary Alpha. They’d discussed everything the night before. They knew what to do. 

Some of the wolves found low windows to get through while Remus and three others pushed at the door. _Come on,_ the human voice in him urged, _JUST FUCKING OPEN!_

Pushing, straining, and he couldn’t bloody well get this wrong or he’d be tomorrow’s breakfast. 

They were in. A dark hallway. A spiralling staircase. Claws clicking on polished wooden floorboards. Other wolves smashing through the windows. They started spreading out, finding dormitory upon dormitory of sleeping children, and then there were shouts, and then there were screams, and then there was silence on the ground floor. 

Up the stairs. The children were awake. Whispers. Remus was pushed into one of the dormitories by an older wolf. He snapped at her, but went in, knowing what he had to do. Four little girls were huddled in the corner, squealing with fear. How old were they? Four? Five? Six, perhaps?

_Fresh meat._

Pink pyjamas. Pigtails. Gappy teeth. Wide eyes. Shivering with fear. 

He stalked forward, knowing how his amber eyes gleamed. Knowing how drool dripped from his muzzle. Knowing he was ever so hungry. Even then, a part of him was sickened, was weeping inside, saying: _NO. No, don’t. Please, please don’t._ Could he? Could he ruin these lives for the sake of his own?

Oh, he was famished.

And the choice was obedience or death. 

He turned for a second, seeing that Cadd had entered and was sitting there expectantly, a patronising look in his poisonous green eyes. 

Remus turned back to the quivering children. 

And to Cadd.

And back to the children. 

And then he pounced, but not on the children, ending up on top of the burly form of Emil Cadd, who dug fangs into Remus's side. They fought, teeth and claws digging into every inch of skin, and spit flew from their snarling lips and blood seeped from their gaping wounds and all there was in Remus's mind was the fight: _attack, attack, attack._ Pain, blinding pain followed by brief triumph, being knocked back, then leaping forwards. It was a game of back-and-forth fighting, neither gaining the upper hand while they duelled. 

Flesh under teeth and ripping. Warm blood on his tongue, but also trickling down his side. Pain, pain, _attack, attack, attack_. Snarling, growling, barking, howling, thrown back, lunging forwards again and again and again. _Attack, attack, attack_. Flashes of pain. _Attack, attack, attack._

Then there was a commotion at the door and all the other wolves flooded in, and they leapt on him until all their weight pinioned him into the ground. He struggled, kicking and flailing and snarling, but he was stuck, weighed down by half of the Pack. For once, they ignored the children, who sat there waiting to be Turned and confronted their own brother. 

Their brother, Remus Lupin, the pathetic mess of a werewolf.

Through scrambling forms, he glimpsed a pale-furred wolf sitting in the doorway. Lisa, her blue eyes sparking with disappointment, muzzle already soaked with children’s blood. She shook her head sadly at him. 

His view was blocked an instant later, with a set of fangs thrust into his face, biting inches from his nose. He kept struggling, but too much blood was on the floor and not enough in his veins. He was feeble, his eyesight fading, pain shooting lead into his muscles, and soon enough he could barely move, barely see, only suffer that pain. Pain, pain, pain and it was worse than ever before because he knew he deserved it. He deserved everything they doled out to him because he was a bloody great _failure._ Even Lisa thought so. 

He scarcely remembered the next part. One moment he was bleeding out in the orphanage dormitory, and the next he was being dragged down the stairs, each step a painful hit shuddering through his bones. Down the stairs, bruises forming, then into the lobby, leaving streaks of blood behind him, the rest of the Pack following where he was lugged, eagerly waiting for his impending doom, occasionally bending down to have a taste of traitor’s blood. 

Pain so intense he couldn't even get to his feet when Greyback was there. Remus didn’t know when the Alpha had arrived, just that he was there, and he was snarling in Remus's face, and he was growling and was very, very unhappy. 

Down streets and alleyways, past rows of terraced houses and surely the muggles were awake by now? Aching, shuddering, so stiff he might as well be dead, eyes closing bit by bit. 

Finally, to the river bank, and Greyback stood at the edge of the path and gestured with his head. 

The river roaring, roaring, roaring like a pride of hungry lions.

He didn’t even protest as they rolled him over the bank and into the river. 

Dragging, rolling, _splash!_

Water, licking at his wounds. Reeds, tugging at him to return to his family. The depths beneath, telling him to give in. The river, carrying him to who-knows-where. 

There were howls of triumph as the river bore him out of sight. 

.

.

**February 13th 1979**

**THE RIVERBANK**

Under the shadows of the sprawling horse chestnut, Sirius sat and examined the house. It was tall and thin with a powder pink door and wisteria snaking up the walls. The owners had been alerted and were shut in their most secure room, the lights in the rest of the house still a-glow. 

It was well past midnight by now, the full moon shining from its peak, the stars veiled by a thin layer of cloud. Sirius found his eyes wandering in the wrong direction, at the river behind him, and he watched it, soothed by its steady current, the gently lapping water against the bank, the odd log floating down from upstream. 

Only … was that a log? He lit his wand and peered at it. 

Uttering a shout, he sent a spray of sparks into the air to alert the other Order members. They were gathered in seconds, and he pointed at the canine body floating down the river, the trickle of blood staining the water red. 

With a series of spells, the unconscious body of the werewolf was laid onto the dirt bank, and as they crouched to examine the body, they saw the carnage. 

Tremendous scratches—sure to scar—ran up and down the body, the fur matted with blood despite the bath the river must have acted as. Its eyes were closed, and ragged breathing barely raised its chest. Dumbledore started muttering under his breath, holding his wand to the worst of the wounds. 

“We got the wrong house,” growled Moody. “It’s floated downstream from the other target.”

“But we—”

Dumbledore shook his head. “We’ll discuss it when we are somewhere more secure. Emmeline, please let the family in that house know they are safe for this month then go home. I’ll contact you in the morning. Caradoc, do you have a spare room where you live?”

“I’m afraid not, Albus. I barely fit in my apartment—I doubt all of you and an injured werewolf would have any space to move at all.”

“If it’s alright, sir, I’m sure my parents wouldn’t mind some more activity around the house,” James interjected, his skin a shade paler than its usual caramel brown from the sight of the blood and the fangs on that thing. “They’re getting rather weary on their own in that enormous house.”

With a nod, it was confirmed, and Dumbledore instructed Caradoc and Alice to go home. Moody and Dumbledore seized the body and apparated with a _crack_. Sirius and James followed.

They arrived just outside the gate, and James, reluctant to wake his parents, let them in. 

Dumbledore went to make a cuppa, and James started hunting out an empty room, leaving Moody and Sirius by the werewolf, which they had set on a sofa. There was a towel underneath it to prevent blood and river water from leaking onto the furniture. 

Moody was already sending off patronuses left and right, pacing around the room with his leg _clunk_ ing every step. The whistle of the kettle could be heard coming from the kitchen, light footsteps from upstairs. Sirius just looked at the bleeding body of the wolf. 

He had never really encountered a werewolf before. It was different from drawings in textbooks and on the blackboard. It was different from pictures in newspapers and whispered descriptions in the Auror Office. This was a real Dark Creature, one who had probably killed people and Turned children and … a werewolf. This was a werewolf. Sleeping soundly, barely breathing, cut and scratched and bruised and so, so vulnerable that Sirius could no longer compare it to all the stories he had heard about werewolves. It just looked like a rather broken dog. 

Why was it in this state? Surely Moody would know if anyone else had been on the case of Greyback’s pack or if anyone would have the chance to catch a werewolf on the hunt. But those scratches were not the work of wands. Sirius could only imagine claws raking wounds like that, but why would other werewolves attack this one? Why had this wolf been targeted, ending up floating down the river Don?

They’d have to wait for it to wake and transform back before they knew anything unless something was revealed in tomorrow’s news, though it was doubtful the Daily Prophet would have anything they didn’t already know.

The night dragged on.  
.

.

**February 14th 1979**

**THE MADHOUSE**

Gasp. A sudden lungful of air, a hitch of the chest, eyelids struggling to open. He tried to move, but he found he was entirely immobilised. He tried to speak, but his throat felt like it had been lined with scorching coals.

Voices. Drifting, dancing, dangling above him. Footsteps, some clunking sounds, and hushed whispers. The Pack was never hushed; not in human form. They were vulgar and gruff. These voices … no. Something was wrong.

He attempted to move with more urgency, this sense of _wrongness_ giving him more energy. He would fight if he needed to. If he could. 

Suddenly: “Are you Greyback? Are you Fenrir Greyback?” A deep voice. Sharp. Loud. Too loud.

He tried to answer, to say _No, I’m not bloody Fenrir Greyback_ , but his voice didn’t work. His jaw was numb, his throat still burning, so his mouth just opened and closed without a sound escaping his chapped lips. In fact, the effort is too much, and he started coughing, coughing, coughing, the sandpaper feeling scraping against his throat. 

Burning in his chest. Fire creeping up his throat. His body lying still. 

He tried again, this time to say _GO AWAY_ , but all that came out was _“Water.”_ He sounded weak, pathetic, needy. He coughed again. 

There was a flurry of sound—more whispers, footsteps, then a warm hand on his cold chin, tilting his head up, and then cool water on his tongue, soothing his flaming throat. He swallowed eventually (painfully) and lay still. 

The voice again. “Are you Fenrir Greyback?”

Then Remus found himself doing a curious thing. He began to laugh. It was high and delirious, punctuated by coughs, but it was a laugh nonetheless. “No,” he rasped, wincing as he feels rocks scraping the insides of his neck. “No.”

Laughing. Laughing. _Why was he laughing?_ Because he was captured or something and they thought he, Remus Lupin, was the mighty Fenrir Greyback. And that was absurd. He didn’t know why, but somehow it was hilarious and he was laughing, laughing, laughing. 

Then he was coughing, coughing, coughing, and it wasn’t so funny anymore, and something was creeping up his throat. He lunged over, head over the edge of the bed he was in and vomited—still coughing, but retching too, despite the yawning emptiness of his stomach and a hand was on his back and something was lodged in his throat and was that blood he was spitting out?

There was more movement, and more voices, and more questions, but he didn’t hear a thing because right then, everything blinked out. 

.

.

**February 15th 1979**

The man—boy, really—was tall, from what Sirius could see of him lying down, with blonde-brown hair soaked through with blood, and a body decorated with scars. He was coated in layers of dirt. And he was naked. Very, very naked, but of course Sirius wasn't looking. 

He’d woken up briefly once or twice, muttering a few words or vomiting off the side of the bed, along with coughs and strained breaths and a few bouts of hysterical laughter. 

They’d established nothing but the fact that he _wasn't_ Fenrir Greyback, which they’d guessed anyway from his youthful features and the photographs Moody had brought with him. It had only been a half-hearted hope that he had been Greyback, anyway. For now, they took shifts, with one or two of them beside his bed at all times, and Moody was alerted every time he woke just in case he was conscious enough for questioning. Dumbledore had dropped in once or twice in the past three days, but mostly it was just Moody, James, Lily, Mrs and Mr Potter, Alice, Emmeline, Caradoc, and of course Sirius himself. 

The Daily Prophet _had_ contained some information—not only had the other house been raided, but an orphanage down the road had too. Several children were missing, two dead, though those who slept on the top two floors remained untouched. One child, when interrogated, had described a wolf about to slaughter them, before turning around and attacking its own companion. According to the little girl, all the wolves had converged on that first wolf, and he had been attacked and dragged out, none of the wolves returning after that.

Had that been this wolf? He was banged up enough for it, and it explained the river. Would the Pack have killed or Turned the rest of the children if it hadn’t been for this werewolf? Was he to thank for the remaining living children in the orphanage?

Sirius sat alone by the werewolf’s bedside, in a chair that looked far more comfortable than the lumpy bed. As he pondered, he studied him; it wasn’t often you get to see a real-life werewolf sleeping peacefully.

“Can I have some clothes?” The scratchy voice shocked Sirius out of his reverie, and he turned his head to see the werewolf awake, struggling to open his eyes. "And ... I can't see. Why can't I see?"

"I … Yeah. Yeah, of course. You've got, uh, blood stuck to your eyelids. Do you want me to get a cloth or something for that?"

He looked surprised that Sirius had agreed, but he quickly schooled his face into a neutral expression. "Yes," he croaked. "Please."

Sirius stood and walked to the door. Thinking again and wondering whether it was such a good idea to leave him unattended, he simply called out, "Effie!" 

In a moment, Mrs Potter came round the corner. "Yes? Is he … is everything alright?"

"Yeah, fine. He wants clothes and a cloth to wipe the blood off his face. Could you…?"

"Of course. I'll only be a moment."

Sirius went back into the scant little room that they had put the man/boy/werewolf in and sat back down. 

After a moment of silence, he asked, “What’s your name?”

The answer was a raised eyebrow. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I don't know how to refer to you in my head.”

He hesitated. 

“I’m Sirius,'' Sirius said. 

He said nothing. 

Just then, Mrs Potter came in. She smiled at the currently nameless man, who couldn't see her anyway. “How are you feeling?”

A shrug, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself in the face of such kindness. “Sore.”

She held a wet cloth in her hand, and before lowering it to his face, she said. “I’m going to wipe the blood off now. It’s just a cloth.” Slowly, ever so gently as if she was dealing with Sirius or James, she wiped at the blood on his chin, and then his cheeks, and then his nose, his temples, his forehead, into his hairline. Finally, she dabbed at his eyes. 

He started to crack them open, bit-by-bit until his eyes were open and blinking rapidly, spinning around the room and taking every detail in. They settled on Sirius, and the wizard sucked in a breath. His eyes were twin amber searchlights. The type of eyes in comics that could only belong to a superhero from another world, as if molten gold had been dripped onto his irises, then covered in the sweetest honey. Clear, sharp, speckled with something darker. They were the eyes of a wolf.

“Thank you,” the boy murmured.

“You’re welcome,” said Euphemia, setting the clothes next to him on the bed. “Here are my son’s clothes. They may be a little small, but they’ll do for now. You can keep them if you like.”

The werewolf nodded.

Mrs Potter left, and the man looked expectantly at Sirius. 

“Sorry,” Sirius said. “I’m not supposed to look away. I’m supposed to be guarding.”

He shrugged. “I guess you’ve already seen it. I’m not exactly covered. Do you mind … could you help me get up?”

“I … yeah. Of course. Would you like … do you want me to wash the blood off first? So it doesn’t get on the clothes?”

“Uh…” The boy was eyeing the wand in Sirius's hand.

“It’s just a quick spell. Doesn’t hurt.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

With a flick of his wand, the spilt blood was cleared, leaving still-healing cuts from the Full Moon pink and angry. The boy looked at Sirius's wand and the lack of blood on his body as if he had never seen magic before. Maybe he hadn’t.

Settling a hand on his back and supporting him as he sat upright, Sirius got closer to him and saw the network of jagged white scars crisscrossing his shoulders and back.

Moving his long limbs awkwardly and wincing as he did so, he put a shirt on, then a jumper, and managed to stand for the boxers and trousers, then bend to put on a pair of socks. The clothes were James’, so at least they were _nearly_ tall enough, but James was scrawnier than the werewolf, so the clothes were still ill-fitting in every dimension. Sirius was almost disappointed that the map of silver scars and the expanse of golden skin was covered.

“Remus,” he said suddenly, looking up.

Sirius frowned. “What?”

“Remus Lupin,” he said. “My name.”

.

Remus felt very alone (but tried not to show it) among all of the strangers. These wizards and witches. 

“Are you Fenrir Greyback?” Asked the same one who had questioned him before. He could see the man now and noticed—to his shock—that one of his eyes was mechanical or magical or something, whizzing around seemingly of its own accord. The rest of his body matched—it was a mismatch of his original hulking figure and of wooden limbs and missing chunks of skin and curious scars. Not that Remus could talk about scars. 

“You’ve already asked that,” Remus said. “Can I please have some more water?”

The man huffed and rolled one eye (the other had already been spinning for the last five minutes.). “Caradoc, would you mind?”

“Course not.”

The blonde man left, and a minute later the door opened again, this time emitting a tall man with a long silver beard. 

“Alastor,” he said.

“Albus,” came the reply from the mismatched man.

All attention in the room was drawn to this old man. He seemed to suck the energy from every corner towards him, until all eyes were on him, all thoughts around him, all authority passed from Alastor to him. Albus was in charge now. He walked through the small crowd of people before standing immediately in front of the bed, his eyes boring into Remus's.

At that moment, Caradoc came in with a glass of water, passing it to Remus, who sniffed it suspiciously, and upon deciding it was safe, started sipping at it, then drinking, then gulping until he’d finished it all, aware at all times that everyone was watching his every move.

“You must be hungry, too. After this, I’m sure we could find you some food.” Albus said. “I’m Albus Dumbledore. You might have heard of me?”

Remus offered a nod, remembering the surname from a few of Greyback’s mutterings and Cadd’s rants. It was the kind of name he had only heard spat in disgust or hatred. It was also the kind of name that meant that in no situation could his forename be used instead of his surname.

“Who am I, then?”

“A wizard.”

“Yes.”

“A soldier.”

“No.”

Remus didn’t say a thing. He couldn’t remember anything beyond the fact that he was a powerful wizard who Greyback wasn't fond of at all.

“I’m a teacher.”

He still didn’t answer, not sure what to say to such a random statement. 

“The point is that we’re trying to help you.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled.

Remus scoffed, managing to find his voice long enough to compose sentences now. “By taking me from my home and my family and then taking my freedom? You lock me in a cell and call that _helping_? If you want to help, send me back.” His voice was low but accented by a deep growl, the close walls and surrounding people making him cagey.

“What is your name?”

“I don't see how that helps me!”

“What is your name?”

“I—"

“Remus Lupin.” Came another, softer voice, upper-class and rather quiet. It was Sirius, the one who had been guarding him when he woke up (with the hair and the eyes and the cheekbones) who had given him clothes and cleaned away the blood. Giving away his name. The bloody idiot. The traitor. 

“Thank you, Sirius.” The man sighed. “Remus, you were found floating down the River Don, with nasty claw wounds covering your body. You were lucky to survive.”

He winced, imagining the pack descending on him again, a flurry of snarling wolves and claws and fur and teeth and blood, then a splash and panic and darkness. Then waking. Waking and screaming and laughing. _You better be ready, Lupin. You better._

“What we mean to say is that we saved you, Remus, and—”

“Stop.”

“Look, all we want—”

“STOP!” He yelled, the anger rising again. “How dare you? How fucking dare you act as if you’re my saviour, then keep me here like a prisoner with constant guard and interrogation and no word of who you are or what you’re going to do with me! How dare you?! Send me back! If you’re so fucking gracious, SEND ME BACK!” And he yelled and yelled, letting it all come back, not caring if what he was saying was nonsense or actual English anymore, just needing to yell and rage at those smiling _(still smiling!)_ faces. He thought he must have blabbered some Welsh that he still remembered from his long-ago childhood, mangled strings of curses, some Latin phrases that Doc always muttered to him, and incoherent screams.

And he was sitting up, lashing out, and finally— _finally_ —his audience reacted, some moving forward to push him back, a few drawing their wands. And an hour ago he would’ve been afraid but he was beyond caring. 

Then he stopped. Stopped because although his mouth was moving, no sound emerged, and he was left gaping like a fish, and then just glaring. 

_Bloody wizards._

Dumbledore kept looking at him with pity. “You should know, Remus, that the whole situation of the river and the wounds seemed rather intentional. It is my belief that your pack tried to have you killed.”

He shook his head, knowing it was true but refusing to acknowledge that to Dumbledore. 

“I’m taking the charm off you now, but we would appreciate it if you didn’t shout. The Potters have kindly agreed to let you stay in their house, and it would be rather rude to disturb their peace.”

Remus felt nothing but saw as the man flicked his wand. It wasn’t that he gave a damn whether he disturbed the peace; he just resolved to be difficult—that way, they might stop in frustration.

“Just a few more questions, Remus. Do you _know_ Fenrir Greyback?”

“No.”

Everyone shuffled. “Do you know Fenrir Greyback?”

“I just said no.”

The old man sighed, “How about this: who is the leader of your pack?”

He shrugged.

“Lupin, you are acting like a child. This information could be life or death, don’t you understand? Please work with us here.”

Remus scoffed. “Yes, when you attack the Pack, there will _certainly_ be death.”

“Remus—”

“They’re innocent!” His voice was loud again, insisting, needing his message to reach these oblivious wizards who saw nothing but themselves. He wanted to hurt them, wanted them to think, wanted to make them take a step back and look. “They are all innocent! There are children—some barely _five years old_ —living in the pack. Will you kill them? TELL ME THE BLOODY TRUTH!”

And this time he didn’t scream and thrash any more; he just sat there in stony silence, eyes fixed on the old wizard. 

“No,” Dumbledore finally said. “We would not kill innocents.”

Remus's voice went deadly quiet. “And how would you judge who is innocent? What would happen to the survivors?”

"Whoever does not wish to hurt others will be deemed innocent. Once this is … _assessed_ , the innocents will be welcomed into our society."

He scoffed again, shaking his head. "What, as your bloody tame wolves, with nothing but their own body to attack every month, who live in fear of being assaulted on the streets or executed by their own government, who have registry numbers burned onto their skin? I’d rather die, Dumbledore. I’d rather die than live in your fucking prejudiced society, and I’m sure every other member of the Pack would say the same.”

“Remus—”

His voice carried the hiss of a basilisk. “Just shut up! Don’t try telling me you’re doing the right thing cos you bloody well aren't, and you know it. If you won’t let me go, do me a favour and fuck off.”

.

.

**February 16th 1979**

**THE MEETING ROOM**

The Order met in the dining room of Potter Manor. As the hosts, Monty and Effie were sitting with them, and because of her closeness to the family, Lily had become involved too. Other than that, it was the first group that had gathered in The Foxhunt a month ago.

Moody tapped a pile of papers with his fist. “His name is Remus Lupin, and he was reported missing by his parents on January 18th, 1965. He was four years old at the time, so now he must be eighteen. His father works in the ministry, his mother in some sort of muggle job.”

“We’ll have to tell them,” Dumbledore said grimly. “Maybe once he’s calmed down a little.”

Alice frowned. “Shouldn’t they know as soon as possible?”

“They cannot,” he replied. “If he does anything violent, they will be devastated. Besides, the Ministry cannot know that we have him. If one of the Death Eater moles finds out, we will never gain any ground with the werewolves at all.”

“But—”

“Once he’s not so … cautious of us, then perhaps it will be a splendid idea. Maybe he still holds sympathy for them. They are his parents after all.” Dumbledore sighed. “Leading on, Fleamont, Euphemia … do you mind if we borrow your house and hospitality for a little longer?”

“Stay as long as you like,” laughed Euphemia. “We’re craving some action, and it’s nice to have our sons around more often.” She raised an eyebrow pointedly at Sirius and James.

“What about Remus?” Sirius asked. “What will he do? Just … sit there until he’s willing to give us some information?”

Moody grunted. “Would you rather let him join a yoga class? Learn quidditch? We can’t have a werewolf on the loose, Black. However human he seems. Besides, the more bored he gets, the faster the information will come.”

“But—”

“Maybe, Sirius,” Dumbledore said before Moody could interrupt. “Maybe.”

.

.

**THE BATH**

Once he could stand and walk, he was taken into the bathroom. They explained the controls and the various bottles on the side and then left him alone. 

Alone. To begin with, he stepped up to the mirror and stared. He hadn’t seen himself for a very long time. It had been years since they last stayed in a place with a mirror, and between then and now, Remus had only seen distorted images in the river when he washed, or the glass windows of various buildings. 

He was … different to before. 

He’d always made an effort to keep relatively neat, but his hair had always been an issue, and it was chopped in all the wrong places, crusted with dirt. His face, crossed with scars he hadn’t realised were there, was equally obscured by mud. His body, once he took his clothes off, he had seen before from looking down at himself, but there were brand new scars and wounds wrapping around his torso and limbs. He looked back to the mirror to observe his face. 

His eyes were duller than he remembered, as if someone had blown the light out of them like birthday candles. His nose was narrow and crooked, clearly having been broken several times before (which it had), and after scrubbing the dirt off in the sink, he could see his skin was rough and tanned from spending his life outdoors. With a further scrub, he noticed freckles climbing his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, little golden specks that made him seem far younger than he was. 

Or perhaps, he mused as he ran the bath hotter (hotter and hotter), it made him look his own age. 

He hadn’t missed the grey at his hair roots. He hadn’t missed the lines on his face. 

The bath, as he sank into it, was heaven. He was far too tall and his shoulders slightly too wide for him to fit in comfortably, but he managed to submerge himself all the same, revelling in the warmth. 

Blood and dirt came off him in folds when he took to it with a bar of soap, and he realised that this was years and years’ worth of muck that he’d never been able to cut through in the hasty river bathing he had always resorted to.

It must have been an hour later ( _How was the water still warm?_ He asked himself, before dismissing the thought and deciding he didn’t want to know, as the answer was most likely due to magic) that he pulled himself out with a grunt. He’d been given clean clothes by Mrs Potter, who was far too kind for Remus to be comfortable around her. 

He dressed, and the clothes were warm, and they were clean, and it was the first time he’d been able to genuinely appreciate that maybe this Order wasn’t so terrible after all. 

(Though they were, of course. They were terrible in every way; he was certain of that, and he returned to that conclusion only two hours later when he found himself tired and alone and in a strange, far-too-quiet building.)

He looked in the mirror again, and now he was clean and he looked … well, he looked like _them_. Like ordinary muggles and wizards who lived ordinary lives in ordinary houses.

Unable to bear his own unfamiliar face, he went outside, where Sirius was waiting (had he really been there an hour?).

The young wizard looked up at him and his eyes widened comically. He gaped. “You look .... different,” he said, looking alarmed.

Remus made a noncommittal sound and let himself be led back to his room. 

.

.

_INTERLUDE_

_Sirius had grown up in a house of ice. Brought up by several nannies, each claiming the ability to knock some sense into him, and each becoming more crazed as the years went on._

_‘Knocking some sense’ became ‘beating some sense’ became ‘using the cruciatus to torture some sense’._

_Needless to say, he had never liked the nannies. Every time he missed a note on the grand piano in the second lounge, she would cast stinging hexes on his fingers. The more notes he slipped up on, the less he became able to play until he was a quivering mess on the piano stool, begging for her to let him stop. Every time he pronounced the name of a long-dead ancestor wrong in his weekly recitals, his nanny would lock him in the library, not to return until he’d memorised the entire family tree. Every time he made a mistake in his French or Latin classes, another hour would be added to the class until his life was a neverending language class, the foreign syllables carved in his head until he could barely speak English anymore._

_But never had he considered leaving, not until halfway through seventh year, when his mother had sent him a birthday card a month late. Why that had made him snap rather than hours of Unforgivables, he didn’t know, but he had rushed to Dumbledore and declared his address was to be changed to the Potter household._

_Dumbledore had just said to him: “Sirius, have you ever heard of the Order of the Phoenix?”_

.

.

**February 18th 1979**

**THE CELL**

Remus beat his fists against the door. By now, his knuckles were cracked and bleeding, his fingers bruised, his palms sore, but still he pounded on the wood, and still he yelled. They’d moved the guard outside the door, presumably to stop them getting hurt (as if Remus would waste his energy on _wizards_ ), and he knew whoever was outside could hear him, so he screamed and yelled until his throat ached and his mouth was dry as the Sahara. 

“LET ME OUT! JUST LET ME OUT! YOU CAN’T KEEP ME HERE FOREVER!”

He slammed against the wood again and again. 

No-one came. It must’ve been hours and hours he made as much noise as he could, but it wouldn’t surprise him if the wizards had some sort of spell to block it out. Hopeless. It was hopeless against these people.

He sat against the wall, sucking a bead of blood from his knuckle, wiping a weary hand across his face. Sleep seemed like an impossibility while he was a prisoner; he had drifted off every so often in the last few days, but every time it was as if his body was betraying him—how dare it shut down? He needed to be awake, to be alert, to be able to protect himself. He recollected a thousand stories all about what the wizards would do to young captured werewolves.

_Emil Cadd, spitting his words out with the force of cannonballs. “A room lined in aconite, chains of silver, locked up alone on the full moon…”_

_Fenrir Greyback, crooning bedtime stories to the pups: “Rape. Torture. Experimenting their evil spells on you until…”_

_Being dragged through richly furnished corridors, down a set of stairs and into a cellar, the click of a lock, a figure standing before him. The hiss as a lamp is lit, the room swathed in deep orange light. wolf skulls, piled up in the corners of the room, with little plants of aconite growing through the eye sockets. The stench of blood rising up around him as he takes in the claw marks on the walls, the floors, the ceiling. The man—the wizard—raises his wand and mutters an ancient word, the magic making Remus's head spin and twirl. Hours and hours of this: alternating spells causing pain or numbness or hallucinations. The burn of silver. The sting of monkshood. Blood spilling onto the floorboards._

“Remus?”

His eyes shot open, and for a moment he was still in the cellar with the skulls and the wizard. His head reeled from the dream. 

“Remus, are you alright?”

He blinked once, twice, until the sinister figure from the dream became Sirius, looking at his curled form worriedly. 

“Get away from me,” Remus growled. 

Sirius didn’t move.

He snarled deep in his throat, baring his teeth. “Watch it: I bite.”

The wizard just snorted a laugh but budged a step back nonetheless. “Isn’t it a little uncomfortable down on the floor?”

He shrugged.

“Come on, you’re going to get bored if you don’t talk to anyone. I’ll get bored too, and I’m really annoying when I've got nothing to do.”

Sirius just looked at Remus expectantly. Remus raised an unimpressed eyebrow. 

“Oh, come on. I’ll bring gobstones or chess and we can play, alright?”

The werewolf shrugged again.

.

.

**February 25th 1979**

**THE LOUNGE**

A week later and finally Sirius had been permitted (after a lot of whining on his part) to accompany Remus throughout the rest of the house. The lounge was first, a nice friendly atmosphere for an introduction, and he slowed down after realising Remus was looking at the photographs that lined the corridor. There seemed to be no particular order to them, varying in age and condition, but it would be immediately clear to anyone that these were the Potters. Sirius had spent a long time studying each picture, wishing that by knowing everyone he could be part of the family. Each person was clearly a Potter: smiling Indians with wild hair and knobbly knees and kind eyes.

“Are you coming?” Sirius asked, not expecting him to answer.

Sure enough, the werewolf merely shrugged, but turned from the photos and followed behind him. After the initial yelling, Remus had descended into a cold silence and hadn’t spoken in days.

He took Remus into the lounge and gestured to one of the chairs by the fireplace. As he sat, Sirius summoned the chess set and set up the pieces with two flourishes of his wand. 

Remus raised both brows in expectation.

“Look, these are pawns. They move forward like this. They can only kill diagonal. Rooks can…”

The explanation following was hurried and fractured, but complete. “Get it?”

The werewolf shrugged, then moved a pawn.

The gentle tap-tap of Remus’ fingers on the knights and bishops and rooks as he moved them in a series of deadly strikes. Sweat beading where Sirius’ hair met his face. The harsh rattles every second from the old clock above the fireplace, counting away one hour, nearing on two.

“Checkmate,” came a satisfied hiss.

Remus had won. 

.

.

There followed a silent week. Every morning, Sirius would take Remus to the lounge. 

They’d tried draughts, and Monopoly when James and Lily joined in, but nothing transformed the usually sombre werewolf like a game of chess. He swore when his decent pieces were taken, grinned widely when it became clear he was winning, laughed when Sirius made terrible mistakes and ended every game with a confident exclamation of _“Checkmate.”_

.

.

**March 1st 1979**

**THE INTERROGATION ROOM**

The silence had weaved a fragile web, and now the two boys were caught in it, staring listlessly into the ceiling or walls, thoughts whirring unspoken around their heads. 

The clock in the hallway struck noon with twelve strikes, the sonorous sound resounding through the house. 

There was a _smash_ from the other room and a faint _“Shit!”_ from James as another glass tumbled from his hands.

The yells of the nearby market square filtered through the window, muggles who had no idea what really went on in the enormous house on the corner. 

But in the little room with the lumpy bed and the uncomfortable chair, there was nothing. Sirius briefly wondered whether Remus was breathing at all. The silence was cold and bracing, like a dip in an icy pool, and Sirius was soaked through. Enough was enough. 

“Where are the scars from?” He asked, his voice soft but shockingly loud amongst the quiet of the room. 

Remus looked up. “What?”

“Your scars. Where are they from?”

He looked up as if the answer lay in the sky. “Fights, mostly. A couple isolated moons.”

“Tell me about them.”

And at that moment, Remus looked over at him, and Sirius felt for all the world like a child asking for a story from the grown-ups. For a moment the werewolf looked exasperated, but then he frowned, averting his golden eyes again. He seemed uncertain.

“Lorraine Blakesley,” he murmured, lifting aside his collar and tapping a shallow bite wound at the base of his neck. “We have these fights, just for fun, and there’s betting and stuff. A couple years ago I did it a lot, and I got good. I got really good. Until one day Blakesley stood up and said she’d fight me. I was arrogant.” He looked down, laughing bitterly. “I was so arrogant. I saw this sixty-year-old woman and thought it would be easy.” He stopped abruptly.

Sirius allowed him a second before he prompted him to continue. “And?”

“And she pummeled me. Even when I was on the floor, she bit at my shoulder there, and scratched with her sharpened nails and broke my leg and hit me and hit me until I passed out. I woke up two days later. She’d broken my ribs at some point, given me concussion too, and my leg was nasty. I was weak. The moon was that night, and if I’d spent it with the Pack I would’ve been torn apart.”

“So what did you do?”

“They found one of those old pillboxes nearby and shut me inside, blocking up the door. It … well, it wasn’t good.” Remus seemed to be running the memory through his mind because at that moment he shivered. “You know those little windows? I could hear the Pack running off without me, and I could smell the prey out there, just past my reach. It was torturous. I threw myself against the walls trying to get out. Barely survived that night, and it took all month to recover.”

“Oh,” Sirius said.

“Yeah,” he laughed, and then added under his breath as if to himself, “At least it kept Greyback off me.”

“What do you mean?”

Remus jumped and turned as if forgetting Sirius was there at all. “What?”

“What do you mean, kept Greyback off you? I thought you didn’t know him.”

“I don’t.”

And that was that. Remus shifted until his back was to Sirius and said nothing more. 

.

**March 5th, 1979**

“Veritaserum.”

Alastor Moody stood at the foot of his bed.

“You’re going to drink it, Lupin. And then you’re going to talk.”

The werewolf only frowned, elevating a single critical eyebrow. A moment later, he opened his mouth invitingly.

The potion ran down his throat, dragging an icy trail behind it. He swallowed and felt it grow until the numbness had invaded his entire body—his lungs, his stomach, his heart frozen and cold and ever so painful. 

Every exhale expelled the chill from his lungs into the room. He coughed, and the sound was harsh as if the ice was coating his throat. He shivered, his nerves screaming for a blanket, a fire

“What is your name?”

The voice was warm, a sudden flame in a desolate wasteland. 

“Remus Lupin.”

“Your age?”

He faltered. Icicles stabbed at his neck.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, and that _hurt_. It hurt not to know, not to be able to answer. “ _I don’t know,_ ” he sobbed. “I don’t know.”

There was a mutter, and then he was addressed again: “Do you know Fenrir Greyback?”

He was not supposed to say. _He’s not supposed to say._ But the flame flickered, the icicles poked in warning. A wind picked up and threatened to topple him over. “Yes.”

“Who is he to you?”

He struggled for a moment for a word to encompass the enormity of Fenrir Greyback, and settled with, “Alpha.”

What were they saying? What was the man saying? He was talking to someone else, and why wouldn’t he come closer? Why couldn’t he save Remus from the cold?

“Who are the Pack going to attack this full moon?”

“I don’t know.” Blinding pain.

“Do you have any idea?”

He took shallow breaths and wondered where he was. “Enemies of the Pack. Children. Always children.”

“Have you ever bitten someone, Lupin?”

Lupin? Who was Lupin? “No.” He choked on the words.

“Have you ever killed?”

“I don’t know.” The blizzard picked up. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know.

“Lupin, have you ever killed?”

“You’ve already asked that.” That earned him a shard of ice in his mind, twisting and freezing everywhere it touched. “I think so,” he said, desperation lacing his voice. “I think so!”

Muttering. Muttering. “Who are ‘enemies of the pack’?”

“People. People we kill.”

“What people? Who are they?”

He’d never been this cold, even after December in a sheep field. “ _I don’t know._ ”

The man sighed. “Who is in the pack?”

“Werewolves.”

“Who? We need names, Lupin!”

“Me. Greyback.”

A growl. “Name everyone you know from the pack.”

“Me. Greyback. Emil Cadd. Lorraine Blakesley. Cecil.”

“Cecil who?”

A flinch as the cold returned at full force. “I don’t know.”

“Who else? Some of the younger ones? The newer ones?”

“Jake. Kerry. No, not Kerry … Kelly! It was Kelly. Mike. Daniel. Liz.”

“Come on, Lupin, I need surnames.”

“I DON’T KNOW!” he roared, and somehow the explosion cut through the cold, if only for a second. 

Silence from the man until, “Calm down, boy. Who else?”

“Doc. Aaron. Amelia. Penny. Lottie. Simon.” His voice was icy sharp.

“Who else?”

“I CAN’T THINK! I CAN’T THINK PROPERLY!” He breathed, rasping and sore all over. “It’s cold. It’s so cold.”

“Give him a rest, Moody,” said another voice.

“I’m cold,” Remus whimpered.

“Lupin—” came the gruff voice from before.

“Please. I want it to stop.” He found himself talking freely now.

“Just a couple more names, Lupin. Give me one more name. Who are your friends?”

“L— No. Make it stop. Shit, it’s cold.”

“Come on. What’s the name?”

“L... L...L—” He ended his answer with a yell.

“Spit it out!”

“NO!”

He could not lie to this man, but that did not mean he had to speak. The pain lingered, but shouting seemed to ward it away.

He gave the man the truth: “I don’t want to say.”

The man—was that Moody?—muttered grumpily to the other person. “It’s wearing off,” came his gruff voice. “Can we give ‘im another dose?”

“Another dose will kill him.”

Another grumble, a creak of the door, and Remus was alone in the cold.

.

.

**March 12th 1979**

He didn’t know why he did it.

It was in the days leading up to the full moon, and Lupin’s movement squandered all of its predatory grace. He shivered uncontrollably, his limbs were stiff, and he spent more and more time lying motionless in his bed. 

“What’s going to happen?” He'd whispered to Sirius the night before. 

Sirius frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The Full. Where am I going?”

“You’re … you’re staying here.”

The werewolf froze, his eyes losing a little of their glow, his shoulders slumping. “Oh,” he said and rolled over to face the other way. 

The bed creaked as he moved. The curtains fluttered. The not-quite-full moon illuminated the little whitewash room. Sirius leaned forwards and reached out his arm, letting the tips of his fingers brush Remus's shoulder.  
A flinch.

“It’ll … it’ll be okay, you know?”

The stony silence remained, grinding into the walls and the floor and the ceiling with its vicious persistence. 

“We can heal you. Dumbledore’s the greatest wizard on earth, and we’ve got Healers and Aurors and Potioneers here. We’re not … not useless, and … surely it can’t be that bad?”

His tawny curls flew in the slight breeze, but the rest of the werewolf was still. Sirius got the idea he was listening intently. 

“And it’s a lot cleaner here. Your wounds can’t get infected, and you can rest up as long as you like. There'll be a long bath afterwards, hot as you want.”

A twitch. He couldn’t work out whether it was a good thing or a bad one.

So he continued. “And … we don’t want you to die. It’s not just the information, Remus. We don’t … I’ve never killed anyone. None of us like death. At all. We want to help you … all of you.”

Remus turned, his scars like silver in the moonlight. He didn’t say a word, just lay there, his medallion eyes open just a slit. 

“I won’t let you die, Remus Lupin.”

He placed a quivering kiss on the werewolf’s lips, and left.


	4. lenten moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The month of March, in which a werewolf is given something to do.

**LENTEN MOON**

****

**March 13th 1979**

**THE BOX**

**#176**

The werewolf rattled around in the little box.

Spine-chilling shrieks turning into howls echoed through the village, where the muggles shivered and told themselves there were no wolves in England.

To Remus, the night was a series of _things:_

The moon-induced craze that made his eyes roll and his tongue loll and these walls seem like enemies.

Blood—the whitewashed walls stained with it, his paws slipping in it, his muzzle coated in it.

Tortured screams turning into tortured howls.

An itch at the back of his leg (scratching at it; biting at it).

The stench of humans everywhere—all over the room, and the thin bed, and out the window, on _himself_.

Pain. Painpainpainpainpain.

Painting the walls with blood.

Sculpting his own body with teeth and claws.

Narrating epics in a code of screams.

The Moon was his muse and this room was his canvas and he was an artist and who was there to stop him?

What was there to distract him?

No-one and nothing.

No-one and nothing.

No-one and nothing.

Blood and howls and screams and pain (painpainpainpainpain) and the Moon laughing above.

.

.

**March 14th 1979**

Sirius watched as he woke, as his eyes shot open, arms flailing for a nonexistent enemy to fight.

"It's me," he said gently. "It's just me, Remus. It's Sirius."

At his name, Remus stilled, letting out his breath in a single hopeless puff.

"Fuck off," he groaned, but the effect was lost to his frail voice.

Sirius laughed before sitting beside Remus on the bed. "How are you feeling?"

The werewolf, as if only just realising he had been healed, looked down his body in confusion. He moved one arm, then the other. One leg, then the other. "Fine," he whispered. "I'm fine."

There was a tension between them that hadn't been present for weeks, a lingering memory (Remus unsure whether it had been real at all in his pre-moon daze) of an electric touch of lips. The phantom of it brushed against his face.

He pushed the phantom away.

"Poppy Pomfrey came over to heal you. She's the Hogwarts nurse. Always sorted me and James out after failed pranks and rough quidditch matches."

"She … healed me?" Remus asked. "With _magic_?"

"Yes."

Now he looked a little sick, his eyes blown wide and his skin paling dramatically. "What will it do?"

Sirius frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The magic. Will it…" He rubbed at the hem of his shirt. "I dunno. Will it do anything?"

"It healed you. It closed the wounds. It reduced the swelling and bruising. I don't know what you mean, Remus."

"He used to tell us that magic would … mess us up, or something." He looked down at his toes. "I dunno," he said again.

"Well, it won't. Not unless it's a nasty curse. What else did he tell you?"

Remus looked towards the window. "He told us a lot of things."

.

.

**March 17th 1979**

**THE KITCHEN**

Three mornings later, when the full moon was nothing but a stuttering ache in his shoulders, Sirius took him downstairs for breakfast. They shared wan smiles on the way down, and Sirius asked how he was feeling, and Remus answered that he was okay.

Remus was led carefully down the most impressive staircase he'd ever seen (not that he'd seen many), and into the kitchen, where Mrs Potter, James, and who he presumed to be Mr Potter were sitting.

He blinked. "Hello."

James grinned broadly, not a trace of mistrust in his hazel eyes. "Remus," he greeted, standing up and gesturing to the seat across from him. "Take a seat. Bacon and eggs this morning. Do you mind scrambled?"

"What?"

His smile didn't waver. "Scrambled eggs?"

"Oh ….. okay. Yeah, that's fine."

As Remus sat, Sirius doing the same beside him, James rose and filled a plate from a series of pans on the stove.

"The house elf's ill," Sirius muttered bitterly. "They're making us cook." Then he gave a proud smile as the plate landed in front of Remus. "I did the bacon."

"You mean you _over_ did the bacon?" Asked James, poking at a charred piece of meat on his plate. Look at it! Practically charcoal!"

"It is not! It's not burned, it's burnt! All the chefs are doing it nowadays."

Mr Potter sighed and turned to Remus. "You've been inhabiting my house for a month, yet I don't believe we've met. I'm Fleamont Potter."

"Remus."

.

He had lunch with the Potters, and supper, and breakfast the next morning. He was welcome to eat with them every day, they said. Call me Fleamont, call me Euphemia, they said. You're remarkably quiet, Remus, don't be afraid to join in.

He couldn't look at Sirius without noticing that those grey eyes seem to drift back to him far too regularly.

You're not here to make friends, Remus, he told himself.

He didn't go down for lunch.

.

.

**THE LIBRARY**

**March 22nd 1979**

He went downstairs for food only when the smell of Mrs Potter's cooking became too irresistible. He worried they wouldn't serve him that exquisite curry if he didn't go down. No matter his stance on making friends, there was only one rule in the Pack about food and that was to devour it.

"Here are some books," said Sirius, coming into his room one day (they didn't lock the door any more). "I thought you might be bored."

The books were stacked high in Sirius's arms, and he put them down on the floor in a heap. "I wasn't sure what you'd like so I just brought my favourites. Try the Hobbit."

He chucked a book at Remus, who caught it on instinct, frowning down at the cover and taking a moment to discover that _The Hobbit_ was its title. "Thanks," he said.

Sirius left with a fond smile, and Remus sat down to read.

.

"Are you alright?"

A head of vibrant red hair poked in the door. "Hello. I don't think I ever introduced myself. I'm Lily. You're Remus, I know." The woman walked into the room, looking around, speaking without taking a breath. "It's a bit drab in here, isn't it? I can ask them to paint the walls if you'd like. We could get some furniture in too, maybe."

He wished the red hair had been black, and the name had been Sirius, and they could talk like they had been doing recently. Lily was different and new, and it was uncomfortable.

"It's fine as it is."

"Aren't you bored?"

"I'm not staying long."

Lily frowned. "Oh. You do realise we can't let you go, don't you?"

He shrugged.

"What're you reading?"

He held up the book for her to see.

"Oh! Brilliant. Can I sit and read my own book here?"

He shrugged again. "If you want."

A minute later she returned; Remus didn't look up as she seated herself in the chair in the corner.

Each word took a long moment to process. He finished another sentence when she said, very suddenly, in a rush as if she was embarrassed, "Can you … are you struggling with that?"

"No," he snapped.

"Honestly. I can help. Do you … can you read?"

"Yes," he gritted out, feeling red flush his cheeks.

"Okay, but … you seem…"

He threw the book onto the floor. "I'm fine," he growled. "Now fuck off, will you? I won't sit here and be insulted. I'm not … I'm not a _child_. I can read. Just because I'm a werewolf doesn't mean I'm uneducated." His voice, he knew, was threatening.

Lily narrowed her eyes, but marked her page with a folded corner and left.

.

He dreamt of books that come alive. They grinned and narrowed their papery eyes, snapping at him and taunting him. _Can you read? Can you read?_

" _Yes_!" he yelled.

_Can you read? Can you read?_

He woke with tears drying on his cheeks.

The next dream pursued him through his own mind. He stood in a courtroom, in a black throne, with chains wound around his wrists.

_(They burn. They're silver. They are alight with the fires of hell. Oh, they burn.)_

Chairs rose around him on every side like the pictures of an ancient Roman Colosseum Doc had shown them once.

_(Does that make me a Gladiator? Where is my armour? Where is my sword?)_

In the chairs were seated hundreds upon hundreds of rabbits, with pointed hats perching between their two velvet ears, a spark of human intelligence on their wide brown eyes.

He was a wolf tried by rabbits. Even in his state of fear, with the pain of the silver cords wrapping around his wrists, he laughed, the sound bubbling from deep in his throat, echoing through the courtroom.

The rabbits were silent, then:

 _"I do declare that you have no rights, werewolf."_ The rabbit-in-command said.

 _"No rights!"_ the others mimicked, the phrase repeating and repeating until a wall of _"No rights!"_ trapped him and he was stuck to his seat, pressed in by the gargantuan ringing of the _"No rights! No rights!"_ The cacophony rose and rose and rose.

He woke again.

A wolf tried by rabbits. No rights, his mind whispered to him. No rights.

.

.  
 **  
March 25th 1979**

**DUMBLEDORE'S OFFICE**

"I want to speak to Dumbledore," he had said. And here he was.

He wasn't certain why he hesitated before the little door. The knocker was in the shape of a gargoyle. It raised an eyebrow in impatience or pity; he wasn't sure.

He wasn't certain why he didn't just walk back down the spiral staircase. He could run now. He could be gone forever, could find his way to the Pack again, could live as he had done.

But he knocked —eventually —and went in.

The office was chaotic. A thousand whirring instruments on every surface, cluttering up the little desks that were spread about the room. The walls could scarcely be seen for the portraits, looking down and Remus with raised noses, whispering _werewolf, werewolf_. A window was in the opposite wall, a grand gothic arch with unstained glass, with dream-catchers and other trinkets hanging from the curtain rail above. There was an assortment of carpets of varying texture and colour and pattern covering the floor, some of them garish and others impractical shapes. From the ceiling hung lights of all sorts —a chandelier dangled in pride of place in the centre of the room, but fanning out from it were bare bulbs and lumpy lampshades and swinging light fixtures that bathed the room in a mellow light. In a trophy cabinet sat shining awards, from tiny goblets to chest-sized shields. Dumbledore's desk sat across from the door. Beside it was a golden stand upon which sat a bird with plumage like a forest fire. On the desk were three jars of sweets, a stack of papers, a collection of paperweights and the most recent edition of The Times.

"I thought that was a muggle newspaper?" Remus asked first, still lingering in the doorway.

"Under no circumstances is it a bad thing to have more knowledge than necessary," the old man said with a smile. "Do come in, Remus."

He stepped in awkwardly, overwhelmed by the moving objects surrounding him with their whirrs and clicks and buzzes.

"I apologise for the mess. I would say it's normally like this, but that would be a lie."

Remus didn't laugh.

"Take a seat."

He did, eyeing the silver machines by his elbow warily.

"You'd best not touch that, Mr Lupin. Pure silver." Dumbledore held out a far of humbugs in offering, but Remus shook his head. "What is it that you are here for, Remus?"

He looked down with a frown, remembering the lingering echoes of his dream. "What rights does a werewolf have, Dumbledore?"

"Please call me Albus."

"Alright." Remus sighed, locking his fingers together and putting his hands on the desk. "But … what rights do I have compared to a wizard?"

"Not many, I'm afraid."

"Ah. Such as?"

"A werewolf is classified, currently, as a beast rather than as a being. Hence, you haven't the right to call yourself human or ask to be treated as one. A potential employer has the right to know if they are interviewing or hiring a lycanthrope. A werewolf must register with the ministry and report every month for a check-up. A werewolf must bear a registration number branded into their skin with silver. Any establishment has the right not to accept the entrance of a werewolf." A sigh from behind the beard. "Must I go on?"

"No. I … had guessed that." He looked up, meeting those twinkling blue eyes. "It's wrong. It's so, so wrong. No wonder we break the laws. We can hardly live within them. What do they expect us to do?"

Dumbledore didn't answer.

"Die? Do they just want us to hurry up and die already? The bloody hospital has every right to reject us, for fuck's sake!"

No scolding on language. No correction on the facts.

"Without a job, we'll get no money. Without money, how can we afford to find somewhere to transform? If we all tried to follow the bloody rules, there'd be werewolves transformed on the streets and hundreds dead and Turned every month! And what happens to a werewolf if they kill someone?"

Barely a blink from the old man. "Shot through the heart with a silver bullet."

Remus laughed bitterly. "Can't they just curse us? Why do they need to follow the fucking fairytales and use silver bullets? It's a joke! A werewolf's end is to die for the sake of a joke!"

He laughed some more, aware (and not caring) that Dumbledore was sitting and watching his every move. He laughed and laughed and laughed and wondered if he was just a little bit mad.

"I should go now, shouldn't I, Albus? I'm doing it again. I'll just go."

A bitter giggle escaped his throat as he slipped out the door and was apparated by whoever-it-was back to the Potters'.

.

.

**March 27th 1979**

**THE STUDY**

Sirius shepherded him into the study where Dumbledore sat in one of two office chairs.

The headmaster smiled. "Take a seat, Remus."

Sirius left.

Remus took a seat and peered down at the paperwork that littered the grand mahogany desk.

"Laws," he muttered.

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "Lycanthrope laws and rights."

"...Why?"

"You seemed keen."

"I am."

"Then why not?"

Remus frowned. "That's not a reason. You want me to do something."

"I'm offering you a chance to do something. How would you like to speak to the Ministry?"

An eyebrow raised in question (Lisa had always complimented his expressive eyebrow movements, though he tried now not to think of her, and of that expression on her face as he was dragged into the river.).

"You can say whatever you want. I know you're passionate. Perhaps you can get through to them. Talk to them about your life. You'd have to lie a bit about who you are, but a lie like that won't hurt anyone. Just tell them your opinions. Tell them they're wrong. Tell them we need a reform."

"What do you get out of this?"

"You're bored, Remus. Bored and passionate and the Ministry is wrong. Only you can get to them. They're only going to listen to a werewolf."

"But they won't listen to a werewolf! That's the point. They think I'm not worth it."

"You are, though, Remus. You are worth it. You just have to tell them that."

.

He spent hours into that day and the next, poring through book after book and paper after paper, stumbling through technical vocabulary until he understood it, memorising the most trivial of legislation and law until he could proudly declare himself somewhat of an expert of werewolf rights. Moody popped in once, glaring at the paperwork before swiftly leaving again. Dumbledore was in every day with (completely unnecessary) kind words and news from the ministry. Mrs Potter was constantly in and out to prompt him to eat. Lily even stopped in once to read in the corner with him (he still wasn't sure about the redhead.). But it was Sirius, really, who pushed Remus to get to the point where he was ready.

He slumped back in his chair, closing his eyes against the barrage of noisy ideas in his head, feeling a million papercuts on his hands, the ink stains on his nose, the stiffness in his legs from doing so little for so long.

He needed to run. He needed to move.

The door, to his disappointment, only led him into the house, and any door to the outside was locked shut.

He wondered, spinning in the office chair, whether he'd ever been completely free. Free of parents trying to protect you from things you don't know exist, free from Greyback and his rough hands and rougher sex, free from the Order of the Phoenix, who would keep him locked up here for the sake of … what? Information? They surely knew he wouldn't give much more.

Freedom is always just around the corner. Unreachable. Futile.

A knock on the door. He wondered if he had the power to say 'no'. Probably not.

"Come in."

The door opened, but the entrant stayed out of sight. Remus spun to see a head of silky black hair and eyes like the slate of the Peak District.

"Hey," he said.

"Hello," Sirius murmured. "You look awfully bored."

"I am."

"And a little lost."

"Just a little."

"I'll help then. What are you struggling with?"

And the papers came out again, lay across the wood like carcasses for picking at. Remus wondered if that made them vultures. Then he wondered when he had begun to do so much bloody thinking.

He looked over at Sirius and wished they could stay like this all day —just the two of them, trying to sort one legislation from another. The thought of it was strangely comforting

God, he needed to get out of here.

.

.

**April 1st 1979**

**THE HAIR SALON**

The _snip snip snip_ of the scissors and Mrs Potter's tuneful humming were the only sounds in the kitchen. Remus sat on a chair, curls a little damp, looking uncomfortable as Mrs Potter bustled around him, trimming what needed to be trimmed and hacking off what needed to be hacked off.

The hair drifted to the floor like feathers from a shot pheasant as it plummeted. Mrs Potter's fluffy slippers shuffled through the piles of shawn-off curls, kicking them to the sides, letting them scatter. Remus fixed his eyes to the floor, wondering whether letting Mrs Potter do this—cut off a part of himself—was letting her mould him, letting the Order change him. His neat haircut, his clean face, his new clothing … was it all an attempt to turn him into one of _theirs_? A tame werewolf, desperately trying to fit in?

It felt like every _snip_ of the scissors tore away another part of his life with the Pack.

He brushed away the thought. Surely a tame werewolf could never be so outspoken as to be seen at the Ministry? Could be so dangerous as to need a guard and a prison and an entire organisation watching over him?

 _I am not tame,_ he vowed to himself. _I will not be here forever._ Finally, he looked at Mrs Potter, who had shuffled back to survey her work. _I belong to no wizard. I belong to no witch._

"It looks lovely, Remus," she said, a smile creasing the skin near her eyes. "Awfully smart."

"Thank you," was the brusque reply before he stood, brushed the hair off his lap, and walked back to his cell.

.

His hair gleamed like spun gold where the light struck him. It was out of his eyes now, and the golden irises glittered, bare and visible. Remus bit his lip and frowned in concentration at the paper before him.

Sirius tore his eyes away and continued down the corridor.

.

.

_INTERLUDE_

_Sirius had been convinced all through school that he was broken. Not that he'd admit it, of course—not even to James—because it was brought on by a fact that ashamed him._

_He first had sex in fifth year, fumbling in a disused classroom with Marianne Greenwoden. James had told him the day before she had the best tits in the school, and Sirius had nodded along, not really knowing or caring what made them so great compared to any other. He told James afterwards that he had been wrong; Marianne Greenwoden's breasts had disgusted him, as had everything about her body._

_He tried again, and again and again, and even the long-legged, olive-skinned beauty that was Marlene McKinnon (in the year above them, no less!) could fit his preferences._

_Preferences which he didn't discover until after they'd left school. Early 1988 had brought the revelation._

_"Bloody hell, Jamesie, I've worked it out—I'm gay!"_

_James had laughed. "I know."_

_Sirius, eyes wide, had gaped. "What?!"_

_Hazel eyes glittered behind thick glasses. "It's rather obvious, mate. Seventh year, you were obsessed with that Ravenclaw bloke, and I tried to tell you, but … you honestly didn't realise?"_

_"Why didn't you bloody tell me, you utter prat?!" And Sirius had punched him in the arm, and James had tackled him to the ground, and soon enough they were panting on the floor, laughing, and their eyes had met, and James said:_

_"I still love you, you know. As a mate. As a brother. I don't care who you shag, just don't do it in my bed and you're fine."_

_Naturally, Sirius's first proper shagging was on James's bed._

.

.

**April 3rd 1979**

**THE MINISTRY**

The bricks were bottle green and the floor shone like a mirror. The shoes of a million wizards and witches made no blemish on the unnatural sheen. Remus found himself looking down, watching the contact of his borrowed shoes on the tiles, examining the distant shape of his head, his curls neatened and face scrubbed, looking more respectful than he ever would've thought possible.

He looked like a different man. He felt like a different man. Dress robes swung around his ankles, and he thought of the posh wizards they had so often thrown stones at when he was a child with the Pack. A briefcase full of paperwork sat heavy in his hand, and he thought of someone smart, someone who can fight a battle with words, someone eloquent and intelligent and educated. Mr Potter had given him a sparkling watch for the day which hung off his bony wrist like a shackle. As if he knew how to tell the time.

Remus was hiding in the clothes of a wizard. A wolf in sheep's clothing, he supposed.

They reached the lift —he was with Moody and Lily, and they had never felt more like strangers —and he could feel the strumming of his heart in his head, quivering through his body, fluttering at his wrists and neck. A single bead of sweat was building below his collar. Were those nerves? Was nervousness possible with no noise, no tangy smell of blood, no Greyback leering from behind his shoulder?

They were going down, he thought, down deep into the belly of the beast. The lift was dark and slow. It shuddered unsteadily. The mirror behind him was, yet again, too clear. The buttons on the side lit up when pressed, rings like little glowing eyes.

Walking out, through labyrinthine corridors. Stopping far too soon at a little black door.

"Go on," Moody growled, then lowered his voice. "And remember: they don't know who you are. We've forged some paperwork to say you're a registered werewolf."

Remus took a breath, brushed his fingers against his lapel, and went in.

It was nothing like he had expected. Just a little room, with a couple of rows of seats at one side and a single desk at the other. It looked as if it had been put together hastily by someone who had forgotten the job had to be done.

A few not-very-important-looking Ministry workers sat in the seats. The front row was vacant.

"Mr Lupin?" Queried a man close to the door.

"Yes," he said.

"Take a seat at that desk. The others will be through presently."

'Presently' was twenty minutes. Shuffled papers. Twiddled thumbs. Tapped feet.

It turned out that the others were the important ones because when they came in, the present officials fell silent and sat still. One particular woman wore a great big pair of robes lined in fur, with a gold piece around her neck and a pointed hat on her head.

"Mr Lupin," she said once seated, her voice sounding dry and lacklustre. "I am Ormaline Tanning of the Beasts Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. You, Remus Lupin, have requested to present your views on several laws regarding werewolves today. You have half an hour. Please begin."

So he started to speak.

"First of all, there are reasons why werewolves don't register, and there are reasons why half of your laws simply won't work."

The ministry workers —even Ormaline Tanning —were leaning 'round to see each other, chatting amongst themselves, even sharing a bag of crisps between them.

Remus cleared his throat. "There's … where was I? … there's a reason that…"

Still, they fidgeted and talked to each other. Not one of them was watching. Not one of them cared.

Raising his voice, he started again. "The laws are…" he sighed. "They're…"

Talking and talking and eating, the crunch of the crisps carrying all across the room, the smell of the salt, the smell of alcohol on the breath of the diminutive woman at the back, the book hidden in that man's lap, the conversation about yesterday's lunch between the young couple in the corner.

"Can you please…"

 _Crunch._ Those crisps again. The Latina looking at her watch. The redhead with her hand sliding up her partner's thigh. The man with the beard, leaning all the way around to listen to others speaking.

"What I'm trying to say is…"

He couldn't get the words out. Not when no-one was listening. Not when Ormaline Tanning of the Beasts Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was laughing at a joke from the woman behind her.

"Will you…can you just..." he took a breath. "JUST TAKE YOUR BIGOTED HEADS OUT OF YOUR BIGOTED ARSES AND BLOODY WELL LISTEN TO ME!"

Silence. They looked to him, eyes wide, brows arched, looking like rabbits in the headlights.

"Thank you," he said. "You've just proved to me what the main issue with the Ministry's view on werewolves is." They were listening now, embarrassed. "You think, because we are beasts, because we turn into a wolf for a few hours a month, that we are not worth listening to. Because I am a werewolf, I _cannot_ be educated. I _cannot_ have anything to think about but simple animalistic desires. But the truth is, we are people too. You never think to ask the werewolves themselves about the new regulations. Because, _of course_ , they'll have nothing to say. They won't care because they're _animals_. They're _beasts_. But you're wrong! We have feelings. And we realise how ineffective your regulations and laws are."

He looked around. Eyes fixed on him. "Do I not look human to you?

"All employers are to be notified about lycanthropy in all possible new employees. Because of the stigma around our kind, do you think those employers will hire a werewolf over a regular witch or wizard? No, that's the answer. A lycanthrope has no chance of getting hired under that legislation. Therefore no chance of earning money. Therefore no chance of being able to earn food, no chance of being able to earn a house or a place to spend the full moon in. Another law states that all werewolves must transform in a secure location of Ministry-approved standards. If the werewolf has no money, how can they hope to afford somewhere up to those standards? Do you see? Following one law makes it impossible to follow another. Following all of these laws is _suicide,_ because if the werewolf has spent all of their money on a place to transform, where is the money for healing potions? Wounds from a captive werewolf on a full moon can be fatal if not treated."

Was that dawning understanding he could see on their faces? Or was he just absurdly optimistic?

He went on. By the end, walking out with adrenaline making his hands shake and his legs feel like springs, he couldn't quite remember what he had said, only that it made him feel strong and powerful and like he was doing something. Actually doing something.

.

.

Moody smiled at him when he left him at the Potter Manor. It was a nasty expression on the man's face, like another scar across his beaten skin, but it was a smile all the same, and Remus took it with one of his own.

For the first time, he walked into his prison with a grin on his face. He couldn't wait to tell Sirius all about it.

.

.

**April 6th 1979**

**THE PARTY**

Another pureblood do. Diamonds encrusted in the hems of dresses and opals weaved into hair. Onyx hanging off ears and emeralds on the tops of shoes. _A jewellery shop for a thief_ , Sirius thought. _But what I'm stealing isn't anything so material._

His mother had told him, just two days ago at last count, to look out for women at parties such as this. He danced with no less than seven eligible girls, each blushing and mentioning their necklaces when all they wanted was for him to take a look at their cleavage. Not that they'd admit that and not that he would ever care. But they'd danced and he had flirted and they'd blushed and laughed some more, twirling across the polished floor with unnecessary flourishes at each turn. He'd told them secrets, whispered in their ears.

_(Bellatrix is scared of the dark.)_

_(Rodolphus is scared of Bellatrix.)_

_(Someone's slipped firewhiskey in the leftmost bottle of wine.)_

_(The canapés here are delicious but don't touch the caviar. They bought it a whole three days ago.)_

The girls would giggle as if they cared, and he'd say:

"What about you? Any secrets in that pretty little head of yours?"

And the girls would blush even more, and they'd lean forward, and they'd tell him things. Most of the time it was trivial, about fake sapphires on Cresilda's new shoes or muggle spray in Milly's hairdo, but once in a while, from girls like this at parties like this (after a few glasses of champagne, of course), they'd start talking about so-and-so and the whore he was seeing, or how that woman over there? she hadn't turned up to parties like these in months and why was she here today? because the baron's here and they're involved.

Gossip was an essential part of the job.

He was dancing with a girl in a saffron dress (not her colour at all) when he did the trick again.

He leaned into her with the smile that always worked. "Do you want to hear a secret?"

She blushed, leaned forwards. "Alright."

"I'll whisper it into your ear."

With a giggle, she leaned further, until they were practically hugging, her chin on his shoulder and his mouth to her ear. "You see the man with the scarlet robes?"

"Yes."

"His shoes were bought on sale from _Malkin's_."

"Madam Malkin's?" she gasped. "But that's where the commoners go."

Her skin was flawless, and for a moment, Sirius wished for some scars. He wished for her chest to be flat and her shoulders to be broad and her hair to be short amber curls.

He shook the thought away. "I know."

"And … a sale! That's disgraceful! Who is he?"

"A friend of the minister. Rabastan invited him. Trying to get chummy with the big faces." He paused. "What about you? What's the gossip? No-one tells us boys anything."

She giggled, then narrowed her eyes, as if she had to think to dig out some gossip. "Well, there was one thing…"

"Yes?"

"You know the Carrow's do in April? The one that was cancelled?"

"Mmmmhmmm."

"There are rumours that it's because there's something else going on."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. It's all just gossip. You probably won't be interested anyway."

"Go on," he said, laughing. "What're the girls saying?"

"They say … there's some sort of another meeting. We reckon it's another party that they just want certain people going to. It's all very hush-hush, just the important ones invited."

"...Important?"

"The Inner Circle. You know."

"Ah. Well, I'm fascinated. What is this party? Where is it?"

She laughed. "Surely you don't want to go! It's all the stuffy ones who are going. All the older men, plus others … the positively beastly ones like…" she trailed off.

"Lestrange?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I didn't want to say. Because you're cousins and all."

"That's alright. She is a little scary."

The music trailed off, the waltz turning into something slower, and Sirius excused himself.

Snatching a glass of champagne from the drinks table, he settled himself in the corner and surveyed the guests.

_The Inner Circle. Some sort of … well, another meeting. Certain people. Positively beastly. Older men, the stuffy ones. The Inner Circle. Certain people. The Inner Circle. Another party. Cancelled. Positively beastly. Meeting. The Inner Circle. Very hush-hush. The important ones._

Something was going on.

"Getting quite cosy with Himmeldine Grey, weren't you, cousin?"

He jumped, looking up into a pair of black eyes "Bella," he said with a smile. "Didn't see you earlier."

Bellatrix Lestrange smiled like a python as it squeezed the life out of it victim. "I was occupied. Extremely important business in Leeds. It's a long way to apparate, you know."

"Good time?"

"You'll see," she cackled, curls bouncing as she threw her head back. "In a couple of days, you'll see."

He didn't like the smile on her face. "I suppose I will. Enjoy the party."

"You too, little cousin. You too."

.

.

**April 7th 1979**

**THE CONFESSIONAL**

Sirius sat down beside Remus's bed with a huff.

"Y'alright?" asked the werewolf with a frown.

"Fine," Sirius said. "Tired."

"D'you want the bed? You're welcome to it."

"It's fine."

"Really, take it. I won't sleep for hours anyway. I want to finish this book."

He looked at Remus for a moment, before sighing in relief. "Thanks," Sirius breathed, climbing beneath the sheets as Remus rolled out. The bed was mercifully warm where Remus had lain.

Sirius, feeling his eyelids drop like weights, sunk into the comfort of the bed, the other man's remaining warmth wrapping around him like another blanket. He wondered, briefly, if it would be warmer if Remus had remained, then wondered if that was a strange thing to wonder about, and then wondered whether he should test it out. Before he could decide, however, he slipped, quietly, peacefully, softly, into sleep.

.

Remus, sitting at his bedside, resisted the temptation to brush a strand of black hair out of Sirius's eyes. The man was breathing deeply and evenly, quite clearly asleep. Would he wake from the movement of a single strand of hair? Would he wake from a brush of lips on his cheek? Would he wake if Remus lay beside him and bound an arm around his waist?

Remus shook himself. This was the guard of his prison, of his hell. This was the man keeping him locked up here, away from his home, from the pack, from Lisa, his best friend who he had barely thought about all month. For a moment he felt guilty. Then he just felt sad.

There is nothing so melancholy as forgetting your only friend.

It was stupid, he thought, to be so enamoured with his captor. Stupid. This man would have him tamed like any other wolf in wizarding society. This man would let him tear himself apart, would give him no prey, no hunt. This man, eventually, would kill him, whether he meant to or not.

 _Stupid_ , Remus repeated to himself. _Stupid._

What am I doing?

He couldn't help but remember the night before the last full moon. Had he been delirious? Was that kiss from Sirius simply a hallucination?

Somehow, reaching a hand up to touch his lips now, he knew it hadn't been.

Still reminding himself it was _stupid_ (so, so stupid, Lupin), he reached over, touched his lips to Sirius' cheekbone, and moved back warily.

Thinking, worrying, hating himself ( _stupid, Remus. It's stupid._ ), he stayed awake all night, barely tearing his eyes away from that spot on Sirius' cheek that he had kissed.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

.

.

Sirius woke the next morning and seeing Remus's sleeping form on the chair beside him, left as soon as possible. He felt vaguely abashed for taking the werewolf's bed for the night, but even more was a sense of confusion, and one of embarrassment. What decent guard takes the inmate's bed and sleeps while the said inmate can do whatever he sees fit? Remus could've escaped. Remus could've killed him.

Walking down the corridors, he marveled how he had slept so well that night. For the last year or so, every night had brought dreams of what he had seen as a spy among the Death Eaters, dreams of what could happen to the Potters, dreams of darkness and death and slavering werewolves and the cackling laugh of Bellatrix Lestrange. Last night, in an unfamiliar bed, in the lingering warmth of where a werewolf had sat, he had slept soundly.

Perhaps he needed a change of scenery once in a while.

 _Perhaps,_ something whispered deep inside, _you just need Remus once in a while._

 _Shut up_ , he told himself.

But he couldn't deny the pull that told him to go back, to speak to Remus, then to shag him silly. Or _be_ shagged silly.

 _Shut up_ , he told himself again. _Just shut up. Please shut up._

.

Sirius spent the rest of the day in confusion. It had come to him in a rush the night before —the realisation —and now he was processing it, working through the barrage of thoughts and emotions one at a time.

In the evening, he was pacing the corridors, watching his reflection in the windows, watching the shapes the dust made on the sills, waving his fingers through the light of the waxing moon. He was thinking, still, and as he passed Remus's door …

_Damn it. Damn it all._

He went straight in, closing the door behind him, and seeing Remus sitting on the edge of the bed, he darted forward and pressed himself into him.

They met in a collision of fire and light.

Lips against lips, biting and pulling, sweet against Sirius's tongue. Their bodies slotted together and crashed at the edges, and there was heat, heat, heat, and rushing blood through his head and rushing blood through his veins and hands on his chest, his hips, his thighs, tangled in his hair.

The night was sweet and rough and skin-on-skin while clothing lay like autumn leaves on the floor.


	5. egg moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April, in which reunions occur, a werewolf shies like a flighty horse, and the Order despair.

****

**EGG MOON**

**.**

****

**12th April 1979**

**THE PRISON**

**#177**

Remus felt calm. The den he was in was familiar now: the stench of his blood from the last Full was still present on the walls; the memories were still fresh. This was his territory.

He stalked around the edges, sniffing in each corner, raising a leg to mark a particular spot by the door.

The smells were comforting —blood and sweat and sex. The memories, lingering in the back of his mind, were a welcome distraction. Remus was content to lie down and sleep, settling his head onto his paws with a huff.

.

Boredom. He had slept for an hour or two before hearing the barking of a deer from out the window. Up like a bullet.

He hadn't run for months. He hadn't eaten for months. The deer barked.

Scattering paws against floorboards. He ran from one end of the room to the other, then back. He wanted out. He _needed_ out. His mind, after a sleep, was refreshed. The usual thoughts of pack and prey spun about his head —where was Alpha? Where was the next target?

From the tiny window, the moon slid out from behind a cloud. It shone, round and perfect like a silver sickle.

He stopped running, skidding to a stop where he could see her face.

He arched his back and inclined his head to the sky, letting out a mournful howl at the watching orb.

Then he turned, a wave of revived anger coursing through his veins, and slammed his shoulder against the door.

This was not a den; this was a prison. All Remus needed was an escape.

.

.

**April 13th 1979**

Waking, unhurt for the most part, he stared holes in the ceiling and tapped out a tattoo with his fingers.

 _There's the rhythm,_ he thought. _I just need an army. And perhaps a few bugles._

Sirius didn't come in for another hour and looked shocked to see Remus awake.

"Thought you'd still be out," he said, peering suspiciously at the werewolf's unbattered body. "You've done alright this month."

"Mmm."

"I just realised. We missed your birthday, y'know. Tenth of March."

"Oh."

"Don't you care?"

He shrugged. "Not particularly."

Sirius sat down on the bed by Remus. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

Frowned. "Really? Because —"

"I said I'm just grand, Sirius." He rose all of a sudden, ignoring a lurching sting behind his eye, and stepped in front of the wizard. He leaned forward and nipped playfully at Sirius's neck. His voice lowered to a growl. "Fine enough to do this."

Sirius, of course, forgot his initial concern. They fell into the bed, and for a moment the world was theirs.

.

He had never felt so confined in his life. Not ever, but for that Moon in the blood-soaked pillbox (stone and stone and nothing but a whiff of fresh air). The room, now that he was recovered and no longer distracted by the hearing, no longer boggled by the new surroundings, or awed by the magic, had lost its foreign taste and become nothing but a memory of the pillbox, the walls encircling him in a cage of brick and plaster. All of a sudden, alone and bored, he _hated_ this gilded prison, and the people who would dare confine the wolf to such a place.

He breathed raggedly: in, out, in, out. He glared at the walls, braced his arm against the window.

And there, below the frame, was a latch, and it swung open at his insistence, the rotten wood splintering below his hands. He opened the window a crack. And breathed.

.

.

**April 15th 1979**

The phial in Moody's hands was full of transparent liquid.

Remus glared. "Fuck, no. Not again. No way in hell am I letting you give me that stuff."

The Auror unscrewed the stopper and turned to the werewolf, who was struggling to get off the chair. "There's a sticking charm between you and that chair, Lupin. Stop struggling. Makes you look like an imbecile."

He glared.

"Look, you're taking it, Lupin."

He shook his head, fear in his eyes. "No. No, I'm not."

Moody seized his shoulders, and he immediately began to thrash in his seat. The Auror knocked him back, hard, and held his nose shut, tilting his head back so he had to open his mouth to breathe. When Remus finally sucked in a breath of air, he tipped the potion down his throat and clapped a hand over his mouth so he couldn't spit it out.

He worked the fingers of his other hand around the werewolf's throat until he guzzled it down.

He suddenly felt woozy, the surroundings becoming faint blurs of colour, everything moving slower than it should. He slumped in the chair.

"What is your name?" Came a voice from beyond the cotton wool of his vision.

The cold was back. Every syllable they ask was an icicle digging into his neck. "Remus Lupin."

"Who is Fenrir Greyback?"

"A bastard."

Moody frowned. The blizzard picked up. "What is Fenrir Greyback?"

"A werewolf." Remus wanted to laugh.

"How do you know him?"

"I'm a werewolf too." He tried to giggle but it came out as a wheezing cough. There was a shade of amusement behind the monotone.

The Auror cursed in frustration. "Is Fenrir Greyback the Alpha of your pack?"

"Yes." It slipped out before he could think about it.

"Is he in contact with the Dark Lord?"

"I dunno."

"Do you know of the Dark Lord?"

"Yes."

"Who is he?"

"A wizard?" It came out as a question.

"Who is he to you?"

"A wizard."

"Have you ever seen him?"

Remus winced as the cold gnawed at his bones, urging him to answer. "Yes," he choked out.

Moody sat forward. "When?"

He fished in his brain for the vaguest answers he could get away with whilst still speaking only the truth. "In the past."

He sighed, one eye rolling every direction, the other fixed on the strong-willed werewolf. "How long ago?"

"A while."

"Where?"

"From a distance."

"Where was he?"

"On the other side of the room."

"Why was he there?"

Remus shrugged. "Visiting."

"Did he speak to Greyback?"

He couldn't help that one. "Yes."

"What did he say?" Moody, tired of the half-answers, had adopted a hint of venom in his voice.

"I dunno."

" _C'mon_ , Lupin."

"I'm cold. Make it stop. Please. It's so cold here." He tried to look around, but the world was still whitewashed, like a drawing covered in a layer of paint, so all that remained was merely a shadow.

"Lupin, are Greyback and the Dark Lord in an agreement?"

"I don't know."

"What do you _think_?"

He forced his lips together and jerked his head. "Make it stop. Please. I'm so cold. I can't think. I can't see. Leave me alone. It hurts. It hurts." It's nothing more than the truth.

.

.

**April 16th 1979**

**THE CONFERENCE ROOM**

James was smirking at him again.

"What?" Sirius finally snapped.

"Who's the bird?"

"I mean ... bloke. Whatever. Who is it?"

"What the hell are you talking about, James?"

He scrunched up his face. "What?"

"Your face! Recently, you've started … I dunno. Daydreaming. You're either in love or imagining a spectacular shag. Which one? C'mon, fess up."

Sirius stared at him. "Love?"

 _Both_ , he wanted to say. _Both._

.

.

Remus was recovered and restless. Sirius watched as he paced his cell, waking in the middle of the night sweating and wide-eyed, standing to walk it off and finding himself without a forest to wander in.

"We need to distract him," said Sirius, looking into Dumbledore's carefully blank face and hoping something was getting past it. "He's unsettled. He needs something to do, something to think about, or we'll find ourselves with a much more challenging situation."

Moody frowned from Sirius's left. "What kind of situation are we talking about?"

"We've got a caged werewolf who certainly won't cooperate if he's bored. He needs to do _something_ … why not try for the escape?" Sirius looked at the older men. "C'mon, Dumbledore, Moody, you must understand! If we want to restrain him, we have to house him adequately. For now, lovely as the house is, it's just not enough for someone who's spent their entire life moving around, always in different places, always outdoors and running and fighting. I'm asking for a distraction for him. That's all we need."

A sigh from Mad-Eye. "I might have an idea. Whether it's the right time, I don't know, but it needs to be done."

"What is it?"

"His parents, Black. His parents haven't seen him for fifteen years."

.

.

_INTERLUDE_

_He joined the Pack at age four-and-a-half, but didn't speak to the Alpha until he was seven._

_"Do you know why I bit you, pup?"_

_Remus swallowed uneasily, his shoulder itching in memory. "To Turn me, Alpha."_

_"But why you in particular?"_

_"I don't know." His tone was insolent._

_Greyback's eyes had flashed. Even years later, Remus always recalled that moment as the time Greyback had first seen him properly._

_"How should you address me, boy?"_

_"As Alpha, sir."_

_"You'd do well to remember that. And as you're too fucking stupid to play along and guess, I bit you for two reasons."_

_Remus remained silent, lost in those predatory eyes that pinioned him to the spot._

_"First, your father was rude to me. Seems to run in the family, eh?"_

_He shook his head desperately. "I didn't mean to be rude, Alpha. Please believe me, Alpha!"_

_"Shut up. Not only was 'e rude, but 'e had the nerve—the fucking nerve—to name you Remus Lupin. Do you know what your name means, pup?"_

_"No, Alpha."_

_"Ask that muggle bloke, then. Doc. E'll tell yeh and you'll know what I mean. Your name meant I had to bite you. I couldn't resist. I'm a man of poetry, me. You remember that. Our names, Lupin—we're linked, yeh know? You're meant to follow me. Named for it. Made for it." He leaned in very close, and Remus knew better than to lean back. His rancid breath was hot on the boy's cheeks. "Remember that, alright? Yeh'd do best to remember that."_

.

.

**WOLFSBANE COTTAGE**

That evening, Sirius walked in the receding light down a little cobbled path. The house was far from the road, hiding behind a screen of foliage, accessed by the path, which wound through the trees. A little gate stood at the treeline, one of two openings in the fence. Within the fence itself was a garden, covered in a blanket of blue and purple flowers, broken only by a continuation of the path, which led to the blue front door.

The gate opened with a slight squeak from the hinge.

Sirius's boots clunked loudly like horseshoes on the ground. The flowers lay still.

He stepped up to the door and knocked.

Silence for a moment, and the flowers in the corner of his eye, until the door opened. It was a tentative answer. It only widened a crack at a time, and when the gap was head-sized, a woman's face appeared.

"Hello?" she asked, a soft Welsh accent on her tongue.

"Hello," Sirius said with a smile. "May I come in?"

"What're you here for? We aren't expecting visitors."

"Can I speak to you, Mrs Lupin?"

Her eyes widened at the use of her name. "The house is a mess and —"

"It's about your son."

She quietened, her face going pale. "Alright," she muttered.

The house was tidy but bare. It was as if the life had been stripped from the walls. The soft yellow paint seemed fake. The perfect neatness seemed cold.

She gestured to a seat at the table. "Please sit. Tea?"

"Yes, please. Is your husband in?"

"Sugar? Milk? He's at work."

"Milk, two sugars. When will he be back?"

"Tonight."

"Soon?"

"Yes. How strong?"

"Four minutes."

Her hands shook as she took a teacup down from the welsh dresser.

Teabags in the teapot. Kettle on the stove. Sugar out. Milk out. Hope Lupin had nothing else to do. She hovered for a moment before moving to sit in the seat next to Sirius's.

"The flowers are beautiful." His voice broke the fragile silence.

"Pardon?"

"In the garden. The blue flowers … they're lovely."

"Oh."

He frowned at her reaction. "What are they?"

"Aconite." Her voice became hard all of a sudden.

"Oh."

A whistling. "That's the kettle."

She stood, taking measured steps to the stove, where steam plumed from the spout of the kettle, and from a little hole on the lid.

She poured the boiling water into the teapot, spilling a little on her hand. She swore loudly and fluently.

"Do you want some help there?"

"I'm fine."

"Really, I can—"

"I said it's fine."

She ran the burn under a stream of cold water from the sink.

"I can heal it if you'd like."

"I don't even know your name. I'd rather you didn't."

"Sirius. Sirius Black. When your husband arrives, I'd like to talk to you about your son."

"Alright."

Out here, there was no sound from the road. Even the forest seemed to be devoid of noise. The house stood silently.

The ring of a french timer cut through the veil. Mrs Lupin turned off the tap and poured the tea, the bell still peeling in the background.

It was harsh and high-pitched. With a sigh, Sirius stood, walked over in two steps, and pressed a button to turn it off.

Silence again. He stood by the fridge. "Mrs Lupin, please let me heal your hand. It's swelling."

She short woman sighed. "I'm fine," she gritted out through her teeth, annoyance lacing her tone. Lyall can do it when he gets home."

"Which'll be soon?"

"Yes. I've even made him a cup of tea."

He sat back down.

Water beaded at the head of the tap and dropped as if in slow motion. The sound might as well have been deafening.

Lyall arrived just three minutes late. His tea was still hot. He hung his coat on the hook and stomped his boots out on the mat. His hat came off and was slung on the peg over his coat.

"Hello," he said as he entered, eyes lingering on Sirius. He kissed his wife on the cheek and sat where his teacup was.

Tea was drunk. Hope's hands didn't stop shaking. Lyall's eyes were suspicious. Sirius tapped his foot against the table leg.

"My name is Sirius Black, and I'm here about your son."

Lyall frowned. "My son is dead."

He looked down at the floor, fiddled with a button on his robes. "No, Mr and Mrs Lupin. He isn't."

.

.

**April 17th 1979**

**THE EXHIBITION ROOM**

They'd told Remus that he had some guests coming. There had been a suspicious glare behind Moody's eye. There had been a nervous tremor in Dumbledore's hand. Sirius had bitten his lip and looked away.

Remus sat, as he had not done in a while, on the bed, leant over, head in hands.

 _Guest_. The word left an awful lot to be imagined. The phantom of Greyback's words came back to him; _"When you want to know about wizarding society, look no further than the executioner standing behind you, gun loaded with silver bullets, barrel pointed at your head,"_ the Alpha had growled when he'd caught Doc teaching about wizarding life to some of the younger ones. Remus had been young then—young and still terrified—and the words had never left his head.

In Remus's head, the man stood behind him, breathing into his ear, then pausing to let him hear the click of the safety. The gun, cold against the back of his head, where the neck joined the skull. The bullet, lodging in his brain with a spurt of blood and an earsplitting shot.

He flinched when a gust of wind blew through the open window and brushed against his throat.

Surely Sirius could never let that happen? Surely after everything recently…?

But no. It was only sex ( _good_ sex—Remus could take control, could be the one with the reins for once, could feel the shape of the other man below him rather than above). To Sirius, Remus was nothing but a werewolf and an easy shag. A dead werewolf was not something to cry over. A shag was not something to cry over. Sirius, with his cheekbones and his hair and his blinding smile, could easily find someone else.

"Remus?" came a voice from outside. Sirius.

He didn't reply, preferring to watch the door in silence.

"Here we are."

Three sets of footsteps outside. The door pushed open slowly, tentatively.

A woman and a man, followed by Sirius, came in, looking at Remus in shock as if they'd never seen anything like him before.

Certainly not executioners.

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Remus," the woman breathed. The man continued to stare, mouth hanging open, eyes wide.

The werewolf frowned. "Who are you?"

They looked stumped at this question. The man opened his mouth wider, as if to speak, and closed it again. The woman's shoulders drooped.

"Who are you?" Remus repeated, more forcefully this time.

"We're…" the man sighed. "Remus, we're you're parents."

He stilled. With all the possibilities he had considered and despaired about, he had never once considered this.

He drank in the long nose of the man—his father—and the round lips of the woman—his mother. Despite his strength, he'd inherited a gauntness from his father, who was tall and long-limbed. His eyes were the same shape, his chin the same angle. His mother had curls as tight as his own, though darker, and there were dimples on her cheeks as she broke into a smile—dimples which he had always hated on himself, but made the woman have the same cosy, enticing feel as a crackling fireplace or a particularly fluffy sofa.

"We thought you were dead, son." The Welsh accent from his mother cut through his thoughts.

He continued to stare, not quite comprehending the fact that these were his parents. He'd always assumed they were far away, unreachable and long gone and not caring where he was. They had been erased from Remus's mind.

But here they were.

"Remus?"

He looked down, closing his eyes, not able to bear even looking at them.

"Gimme a minute," he muttered. "Could you just…?" Remus tilted his head towards the door.

"Of course, Remus. Take all the time you need," said the woman—his mother.

His mother.

He didn't even see them go out.

Greyback had once told him when he was seven and still crying for mummy, that—

_"If your mother looked at you now, she'd cast you out. She'd hate you and scorn you just cos' you're a werewolf. Don't cry for mummy. Even if she could, mummy doesn't want to save you now. Forget it, pup."_

She had smiled at him. Her blue eyes had shone. She didn't hate him. Even now, she loved him. Briefly, he thought, _why?_

And the man … the man who looked just like him. His father.

_"Your father is cruel and evil. 'e hates werewolves more than you can even imagine. You father, the bastard, would kill you now, given the chance. 'e'd kill yeh!"_

His father had looked shocked, but not angry. Not cruel or horrified or hating.

Greyback's tongue carried nothing but lies.

Sirius poked his head in. "Remus? Do you want…?"

"I … I don't know. I don't know if I can…"

"You can." The smile beneath those grey eyes was enough to convince him. "Of course you can. They're your parents."

"You hate _your_ parents."

"Oh, shut up. That's exactly why you should try now. Because you _can_ love your parents. You _can_ talk to them." He sighed. "Not everyone gets that chance."

"Alright," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "Alright. Let them back in."

And they came back in and he felt like he should close his eyes again because he couldn't help but stare. His head spun, heart raced, hands tremored.

"Remus," one of them breathed. He couldn't tell which, because blood was roaring in his ears. Everything sounded the same. "Oh, Remus. My boy."

There were arms wrapping around his shoulders and he sunk into them, whoever it was, burying his face in their shirt, hiding the redness of his eyes. He shook, tears wracking his whole body. He couldn't remember ever feeling like this before: like his body was out of his control, like his tears would fall until he made a river, _like he meant something to someone_. He cried and cried until he wasn't sure how long it had been.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry."

The figure pulled away. "Why? Don't be sorry, son."

"I'm sorry. I just … left you. I haven't thought about you. I haven't asked about you or tried to find you. I forgot I even had parents at all." He spat the words like he was blaspheming. "I thought you'd just … just _hate_ me anyway."

He turned his face away, suddenly embarrassed about the state of his eyes, his cheeks, his nose. He wiped away the tears with a sleeve.

"We could never hate you, Remus. You're—"

"But you could! You could hate me! You have _no idea_ what it's like. I'm … I'm disgusting. I'm a beast."

"You're not—"

"BUT I AM! I AM, ALRIGHT? I'M NOT THE FOUR-YEAR-OLD YOU REMEMBER! I'VE KILLED, YOU KNOW? I'VE KILLED PARENTS—LIKE … LIKE YOU—AND WATCHED THEIR SONS AND DAUGHTERS BE BITTEN LIKE I WAS!" His chest heaved. "I AM NOT YOUR PERFECT SON! I AM NOT THE REMUS LUPIN YOU KNOW! "

They left in a flurry of putting on coats and the creaks of leaving a bed in a hurry.

Faintly, Remus could hear a hushed conversation from outside.

_"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. He gets overwhelmed sometimes. He has his moods. He's … he isn't alright, and I don't think he ever will be, after everything, but he's not a bad person, Mr and Mrs Lupin. Take my word for it."_

_"Thank you, Mr Black. For everything. I think we should be going."_ His mother's voice sounded rattled and shaky. Two pairs of footsteps had never been so gloomy.

.

"I didn't know you'd killed before."

Remus shrugged. "I have." His face turned cruel. "And I ate the bodies after."

Sirius sat beside him. They didn't talk about Remus's parents or his explosion or what would happen next. They just sat, and Remus felt the turbulent thoughts disintegrate, and Sirius wondered if they could ever fix this broken man.

.

Remus had returned to a docile state by the time Dumbledore arrived. Sirius gave him a summary of the events and warned him of the werewolf's temper. The old wizard only smiled wanly and walked straight in. Behind him, Moody followed, and the two men stood in front of Remus, who had been sitting in the same position for hours, even since his parents had left, knees tucked into his stomach on the edge of the bed.

Sirius, following them in, heard the tail of the greeting.

"—quite alright, Mr Lupin?"

Remus stiffened. "Please don't call me that."

"Why?"

"I'm not—"

"But you are." He pulled his hat off and sat in the empty chair. "Remus, how did the meeting go?"

"Fine."

"Are you sure?"

Remus looked up and saw the expression on Albus's face. "You know then?"

"Yes. Why, Remus? What happened?"

"You had no right to do that."

"To do what?"

"To put me in that position without warning me." His voice was measured, but anger lay beneath. "I didn't know they were alive! I might not have wanted to see them!"

"But you did."

"You had NO RIGHT, Dumbledore! Don't you understand? They'll live in hope of their son returning when it will _never happen._ I am not to be trusted. I'm not stable, or whatever. You'll never let me out of here, not as long as I hold information. Not as long as I am still angry, and I will _always_ be angry. I cannot remember a time when I was not angry at something or someone. I'm not ... I'm not him. Their son. The little boy they remember. They have no idea what I've done, what I've seen" He breathed heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly. "I'm not one of them. A Lupin. And … look, I'm not one of you either. I'm just a werewolf, and whatever you tell yourself whatever you make me into, nothing will change that."

"Remus—"

"They'll want to get to know me! I'm not an exhibition. I'm not going to play nice and go out for tea with them. If you let me speak to them as I am, it's a situation you can't control. It's not fair to me and it's not fair to them, alright? So shut up and bloody well ask me before you try and meddle with my mind like that. You have no right to do that again."

Dumbledore sighed. "They're your parents."

"Fenrir Greyback is the only parent I need. I am a wolf! I'm a werewolf, whether you like it or not. Whether they realise it or not. I'M A BLOODY WEREWOLF!"

Remus yelled into the night, and the next morning he was gone.

.

.

**April 18th 1979**

"Where is he?"

Dumbledore turned around. "Where is who, Mr Black?"

"Remus. You've … you've moved him, or something. You've sent him away. Where is he?"

Sirius stood, hands clenched in shaking fists, anger flaring in his eyes, in Dumbledore's office. The old man frowned. "Mr Black, I have not sent Remus anywhere."

"But…"

"Is he not at the Potters'?"

"Nowhere to be found, Professor."

"Are you quite certain?"

"Yes," Sirius breathed, thinking of the empty room, _The Hobbit_ missing from its place on the bedside table, the bedsheets neat for the first time since Remus had moved in. "It's … he's gone."

 _It's so empty,_ he had nearly said. For it was. The room had no life. The house was quiet. The bed no longer looked welcoming and familiar. _So, so empty._

.

.

**April 23rd 1979**

**THE WAKE**

He kicked at the ground. The forests were turning greener by the day, but warmth hadn't quite reached the north of England ( _does it ever?_ he wondered). He'd been wandering all day, waking his legs from the cramped conditions on the trip. Remus had hitchhiked with a group of four women who had gotten quite handsy after an hour or two (he'd politely asked to be let out, and it was a relief when he was finally released.). After the women had been the truck. Unable to find anyone willing to pick him up, he'd leapt into the back of an open truck, sitting amongst bin bags stuffed with stinking who-knows-what for five hours straight. Needless to say, his legs ached from misuse and from sitting on that particularly lumpy cargo.

 _Why am I doing this?_ he asked himself with a sigh. _Why am I chasing after Fenrir Fucking Greyback?_

The truth was, he didn't know. He felt an irresistible pull to the Pack, especially to the man himself—the Alpha. Greyback. Perhaps it was a wolf thing. Was it possible to love and hate a man at the same time?

He'd called Greyback his father. _'The only parent I need.'_ He shuddered, imagining what the Alpha would have him do if he knew that. _'Call me Daddy,'_ he'd say. _'Scream it like it's a prayer.'_

He quickly cast the thought from his mind.

Shaking his head, Remus sniffed at the air and frowned, rolling over a log with his foot absentmindedly. There'd been reports of mass pillagings in the area recently, but he'd wandered all over and couldn't sense a thing. Usually, he'd smell something, or hear a bark of laughter on the wind, or see the telltale cracked branches and trampled grass of recent inhabitants. Today? He felt like the Pack were taunting him, watching him struggle, watching him chase them as they stayed just out of reach. He would stay in their dusty wake until they finally gave in and indulged him.

"Where are you?!" He yelled suddenly into the silent air. "WHERE ARE YOU?"

.

.

_INTERLUDE_

_The Dark Lord lounged on his throne._

_"What do you think of the plan, Lord?" The werewolf asked._

_"It works. Lacks finesse, but it works. When is this?"_

_"We have already confirmed the dates, Lord. Months ago."_

_"Hush, Greyback. June? The Full Moon?"_

_"Yes."_

_"You had better uphold your side of the bargain, wolf."_

_"Oh, I will. I just need this, My Lord. And the Pack will be yours."_

_"And why, exactly, do you need this?"_

_Greyback threw back his head and smiled, rotten gums revealed below his lips. "Freedom, My Lord. Freedom."_

_As Greyback left, the Dark Lord leant back with a snarl of contempt. His hounds needed no freedom._

.

.

**April 24th 1979**

**WOLF AND HOUND**

Another pub with seedy meetings in every booth and curious figures at the bar. The fire glowed green at one end, outlining the shape of a goblin family gnawing on their hippogriff burgers. The air was awash with the sweetness of spilt beer and in every corner was an ancient pile of dusty peanuts.

Sirius nearly rolled his eyes at Dumbledore's stubborn traditionalism.

Their table was at the end furthest from the fireplace, and it was clear the building hadn't caught on to muggle central heating or housewarming spells because a draft brushed straight through the window and settled around them like an unpleasant smell—which is to say, it wasn't out of place.

The table looked a little emptier than it had at the beginning of their mission. Alice and Frank were to be married the next week, and Dumbledore had suggested she take some time off. Caradoc was 'busy', a word which implied either a top-secret mission or the most recent woman he'd taken a fancy to. James was working on the security of his house, which had failed spectacularly during the escape. Remus must've had some magic in him after all.

"Remus Lupin is missing," Dumbledore said, his voice low. "No-one has seen him since the night we introduced him to his parents."

"Well that must've been it then," said Emmeline, flicking a curling lock of hair over her shoulder.

"What happened that night?" Moody growled. "How did he react to his parents?"

Sirius looked at Dumbledore, whose brows came together, concerned.

"He was angry. He was angry we didn't ask him before we introduced them. He wasn't prepared." Sirius looked up, meeting Moody's mismatched eyes with his own. "He was scared."

"Bloody hell, Black—he's a werewolf for Merlin's sake! A _beast_. Don't tell me you're getting attached."

He laughed as if it was ridiculous. Perhaps it was, to Moody and Dumbledore, who had never seen the glint of victory is Remus's eye when he won a game of chess or the concentration in the furrowing of his brow as he read. They'd never felt his lips on theirs, and the rush of giddying pleasure that accompanied it. They'd certainly never run their hands down the planes of his back, down the hard muscle and the scars, the tattoo gone wrong at his hip. They hadn't seen the gold in his eyes, the bronze in his skin, or hear the silver in the sound of his howl as the moon rose.

They'd not known Remus Lupin. Not even for a moment.

"Of course not, Moody. I'm just concerned, is all. He … he didn't know what to think. What to do. He scared them off because he freaked out."

Dumbeldore's icy gaze has been on him since Moody had asked about his 'attachment'. Sirius was careful not to meet his eyes, knowing all too well the old man's skills in the subtler arts of magic; he'd never quite mastered occlumency.

"We need to find him. He has far too much information about us to take to Greyback."

Dumbeldore finally looked at Moody. "What was his relationship with Greyback?"

"All he said was 'Alpha'."

"Doesn't sound like they were too close," Emmeline mused. "Greyback must be Alpha to all the wolves in his pack."

"We can't take the chance. I imagine that one word means a thousand things we couldn't comprehend."

"Could we track him?" Sirius asked. "I've got some of his stuff. Clothing and whatever."

"Groovy," Emmeline crooned, eyes sparkling with the thought of being able to use one of her famous experimental spells. "I've got a new tracking spell I've been waiting to try out. Been working on it for months."

"Does it work?" Came Moody's snap.

"It certainly works on my cat."

"We'll test it out tomorrow and use it the next day." Sirius suggested. "For now, we need to think about what to do if he does get the information to Greyback."

Moody frowned in concentration. Dumbledore looked down at his own clasped hands. Emmeline sighed. "We pray," she said.

.

The tracking spell did nothing. Remus's clothes had not been worn enough, or the spell was faulty, or Remus himself had covered his own tracks. Something had gone wrong. They tried all the standard spells, but it was fruitless. The werewolf had disappeared.

.

.

**April 26th 1979**

**THE SPINNEY**

Hunger. The wolf in Remus growled. The evening settled over the little spinney in a veil of pink light that glanced through the bunches of growing leaves. All Remus had eaten was three eggs from a fallen nest. they'd been raw and sticky and nowhere near enough to satisfy the void of what his mother had called 'the bottomless pit'. He had laughed as a child and asked what it meant. How did he remember something so small, so sweet? The last week had brought a barrage of memories plaguing him every time he closed his eyes.

 _Stop thinking of them,_ he told himself. _Just stop._

But he couldn't help it. In the reflection of the streams he had washed in, printed on the back of his eyelids, laced into his own skin … the memories were everywhere. They followed him as if they were tied to him, manacled to his ankles, clattering along the floor as he walked.

Still, he was walking. As a human, his senses just weren't strong enough to find them. Remus needed to change. Remus needed the Full.

.

Every night brought a stronger itch from the waxing moon. His own skin wanted to be rid of itself, as if everything underneath it was rolling around in protest at his puny human form. When he washed, he cursed his ugly human body. When he ran, he cursed the immobility of his limbs. When he slept, he wished for the complicated human thought to float away, leaving the simple focus of the wolf.

It was coming. He begged for it; he longed for it; as the moon swelled, where was the wolf?

.

**May 5th 1979**

Remus killed a rabbit.

Blood dripped from its broken neck. The fur was sticky with it. Its eyes were wide and glassy.

He could barely bring himself to eat it raw. Months before he would have tucked in with gusto, pleased at a piece of meat just for him that he could at least identify as something other than human flesh. Now? His hunger deserted him and he could only imagine eating it after starting a fire and cooking it.

Was he pathetic? Was he weakened by his time in captivity? How could he ever return to living in the Pack so…

Delicate?

Weak?

_Tame?_

He shivered at the thought and sunk his teeth into the bloodied flesh, resisting the urge to retch.

.

.

Sirius sat with head in hands.

"He's … he's a werewolf." He whispered into the empty room. "I … I don't care about a bloody werewolf. He's nothing but a beast."

His own mind scoffed at him with disdain. _You weren't worrying about that when he was fucking you._


	6. milk moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May, in which wolves bathe in blood and the world is turned on its head.

****

**MILK MOON**

 **.**

 **May 12th 1979**

**THE TRAIL**

**#178**

Remus was free. His legs hadn't moved like this for months. His howl was long and was released into the night, carrying far and wide.

Above, the bloated ball of the moon smirked from its seat in the sky.

He ran and ran and ran. A hundred smells on the forest floor, but the one that caused him to stop was hauntingly familiar.

_Mine. My Pack. My Alpha._

A small scratch at the base of a tree, rife with that scent of family, of belonging.

Sniffing at the ground, he found the trail (a few weeks old at this point and already fading) and followed it. He howled into the night.

An answering howl far ahead of him set his heart alight with joy.

.

.

**May 13th 1979**

**THE BLOODBATH**

There was blood on his hands, running down his arms, matting his hair, staining his face like battle paint. Blood built in every crease in his skin, drying at the elbows and behind the knees and in the indent of his spine. The blood, thick and dark and still warm.

Laughter rang around the air as Remus pushed himself onto his knees. He raised a shaking hand to wipe the blood ( _so, so much of it_ ) from his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He looked up to the clouds, where the moon hadn't yet sunk, hovering in the cold blue sky like it was waiting for the entertainment before it would finally leave. He could feel it tugging at his chest. The grass was slick with more blood beneath his knees and bare feet.

Blood. Oh, the blood. So, so much of it. Like a lake, a river, a swamp. He was drowning beneath it.

More barking laughter from the rest of the Pack. They gathered around him in a ring, taunting and jeering. He hadn't even managed to stand up after the transformation before they were at him again, as they had done as wolves, tearing and kicking and biting at every inch of flesh they could reach.

 _Traitor,_ they growled. _Fucking tame wolf._

 _No,_ he had whimpered. _No. Please no._

It had been hours, and he still lay in that same spot, naked and bathed in his own blood. He was too scared to be humiliated.

Familiar faces, laughing and laughing around him, everywhere, covering his vision. There was nothing but blood and faces and that ceaseless laughter. _You were my friends_ , he wanted to say. Instead, he coughed a handful of blood and glared.

They kicked him to the floor again, and the cycle restarted.

Pain and blood and laughing faces and blood and pain and blood and blood and—

.

.

**May 15th 1979**

**THE MAP ROOM**

They were back to the Map Room in the Auror Office, this time with Emmeline and her spellmaking books, Moody and his _'CONSTANT VIGILANCE!'_ s, Caradoc (who had returned the night before) with a throbbing shiner. Lily popped in every now and again with ideas, or updates, or cups of English Breakfast for James and Earl Grey for Sirius.

"You're a gem, Lil'," James said with a lazy smile on his face. "A cuppa tea ought to do the job."

Moody rolled his eye and kicked at Potter's chair leg. "Shut up, boy. Get on with the reports. Where are the wolf sightings?"

The hours dragged on.

.

.

**May 17th 1979**

**THE CAVE**

Remus didn't know how long he'd sat there. He was in an antechamber of what seemed to be a gargantuan cave system, trapped behind a set of shining silver bars. After the torture had come rest—if something involving so much pain could be called that—and a silence which was almost relieving.

He should have known. Silence was never a good thing where the Pack were involved.

Greyback, inevitably, had come to visit.

He'd sat in front of Remus, staring through those bars, and he'd laughed. Remus had heard so much laughter these past few days.

He'd laughed, baring yellow fangs stained with blood, his lamp-like eyes glinting like reflections off a knife.

Fenrir Greyback had just laughed.

"See you, Lupin," he'd rasped at the end, and left.

Remus rested his head against a bloodied arm. He could still hear the jeers, still feel fingers ripping his skin, still see the carousel of old friends' faces above. He was still coated in blood.

He'd come back for them, hoping to be welcomed, to hear _'glad you're back, mate,'_ or _'we missed you, kid … where did you go?'_. He had thought at least Greyback would find him as useful as he had before. Now, his own Alpha thought he was a laughingstock. The entire Pack had contributed to his torture. Lisa was nowhere to be found, and he wondered whether he wanted to find her at all. The last time they had met, she had watched him be dragged off; the time before, she had walked out on him in shame.

And where was Doc? Where was the man who had taught him to live?

Remus, huddled against the stone walls of the cave, was utterly alone, and more afraid than he had ever been in his life.

.

Blakesley and Greyback and Cadd and shame beyond anything he could imagine.

Pain and helplessness and all he could do was lie there as they did unspeakable things to his body and his mind

Shame and tears and the cold, dark cell around him as his pride crashed and burned.

.

.

**May 19th 1979**

**HEADQUARTERS**

A meeting at headquarters was only required for matters of Extreme Importance, meetings to which every Order member was expected to attempt to come. It was so top secret that Sirius had no idea where he was, only that it was a house of some sort, and an old one.

Dumbeldore called the room to silence.

"For nearly three months, we held a werewolf and member of Fenrir Greyback's pack captive. He released little information to us. In fact, I will admit we neither tried hard enough or cared enough. We received only a handful of forenames and some vague information on Greyback's victims. Some of you knew all of this. Some of you have met him, and those people will know that we were entirely too lenient. We treated him well and let him get away with things. We released security after he became calmer. This—all of this—was a mistake and I apologise for our leniency."

All across the table, Order members stared. Dumbledore looked … angry? scared?

Sirius noticed that the old man was very ready to say 'we' rather than 'I'.

"The werewolf escaped on the night of April seventeenth, over a month ago. By now, we can assume he has taken any information he has to Greyback."

Mutters from down the table.

"What information does it have?"

"Names, faces, addresses."

"And it can understand all of that?"

"A werewolf is not dumb, Mr Fenwick. This one in particular is very smart and very beautiful, and has already tricked us all."

.

.

At the werewolf headquarters, Remus blinked awake.

"Rem … c'mon, Remus. Wake up!" A hushed voice was speaking to him, and hands shook his shoulders.

His head was weighed down with the knives that were stuffed inside his skull. His brain had become a ball of sludge. His body was nothing but a tangled bag of bones.

"Remus. Please, Remus."

The voice was familiar, but the name escaped him. "L…" he started.

"Don't speak. It'll be 'ard, 'cos this is gonna hurt like 'ell, but you need to stay silent, alright? Try to stand, will ya?"

Without question, his body obeyed the command, a pair of slight hands on his sides to aid him. His legs shook beneath him. His head spun.

"Lisa," he croaked.

"Shh."

"No, Lisa, I …" he nearly gave up then, because his throat burned like the fires of hell, and his legs were like two twigs trying to hold up a full tree, and his chest ached like nothing he'd ever felt before.

"C'mon, Remus. You're gonna be fine."

"Lisa … thank you."

"It's alright. Just shut up for once, will ya?" She gently moved him forwards, and his knees buckled as he tried to step with her.

"I'm sorry. On the roof … I'm so sorry."

"Shut up. I've already said—everything's alright. We're evens now. Just … no more talking. We need to be fast and silent."

One arm around her shoulders, leaning heavily on her, they managed to get out of the antechamber, at least.

"Shhhh," she reminded him when he let out a groan. "Please, shush."

"How … how're the cubs?"

She sighed and looked around nervously. "Fine."

"Even … even Jake?"

"Which one's Jake?"

"The new one."

"There's a lot of new ones. Now shut yer trap."

He shut his mouth tight.

They stumbled through corridors and caves, slowly and painfully, and soon enough Remus felt the sting of tears in his eyes. He swallowed down a sob and let them track down his face.

His bare feet bled a trail where they stepped. He prayed in the darkness it wouldn't be seen. Smell was another matter.

His ankles twisted under him.

"Nearly there, Rem," came an almost nonexistent hiss by his ear.

They staggered on.

After what seemed like years, they stood before an entranceway. Through it came the flickering copper light of a fire and the sound of … was that snoring? Remus hadn't even known it had been night.

"This is the time for silence, Remus," came the hiss again. "Alright?" Lisa propped him up better across her shoulders and they stepped into the central cave.

.

.

Sirius shifted in his seat. "He's not an 'it' either. He's not an object."

Curious glances from the seats across from him.

Dumbeldore continued. "We must call for all members of the Order to track him now, before the situation becomes too dire. We must capture him back, or if necessary, take him out of the equation altogether."

Lily stood up with a scrape of the chair on the floor tiles. "Sirius is right. He's not an object. We have to think before we … before we go out and _kill_ him. He's human too, you know."

Disbelieving snorts and snide comments filled the room before Moody's voice broke over all of them. "Shut up, the lot of yeh! The girl's right. He's a werewolf, but he's a decent sort too. You should'a heard him speak at the Ministry."

"Why was he at the Ministry?!"

"Wanted to talk to the DRCMC. Did a cracking good job of it too. Passionate, like."

"And you let him go? The risks of that!"

The grizzled Auror spoke again: "Like we've said, he spoke pretty. And like I said, he was a good lad. There was no point denying him a chance. Besides, a bored prisoner is one ready to escape. he was invested in it, you should've seen. Hours in that little office with stacks of paper he could barely read. Remus Lupin was a helluva lot more stubborn than the majority of you. And that's not a compliment for you sorry sods."

Eyerolls and sighs from the Order. Sirius felt a spark of hope seeing the support Moody had for Remus. And Lily did too, it seemed.

He wasn't alone. Wasn't alone in having fallen for the charm of the werewolf, with those sharp eyes of molten gold that gave the most intense stares. Someone else understood that 'werewolf' didn't mean 'evil-doer'. Someone else might help him find Remus again.

.

.

Twenty feet away from the firepit and they seemed to be headed straight for it.

Remus's stumbling feet landed only inches from one snoring werewolf's head. His flailing arm nearly knocked a cup of water from its perch on a stone. The snores echoed slightly like the ticking before a bomb went off.

Fifteen feet.

Lisa's breaths were ragged from the strain of carrying her burden.

His body felt like beef the butcher had already minced. His eyes were drooping as he walked. His steps became more irrational. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, tears dripping down his cheeks, washing single lines through the blood.

Ten feet.

He stubbed his toe on a stray rock and whimpered in pain. Lisa suddenly stopped and stared at the nearest slumbering body. The sleeping woman had twitched. Remus looked down and saw the face of Lorraine Blakesley, her closed eyes flickering a little, her grey hair like a mane around her scarred face. He never wanted to see her eyes again. Not after that dreadful fight, or after the moon in the pillbox, or after the night before, when she had come into his cell and all but broken him.

She stopped twitching and settled back into sleep.

He nearly sobbed with relief, but closed his eyes instead. Just for a moment. There was no time for little victories.

Lisa dragged Remus further into the cave.

Five feet.

They were close to the fire now. It was only barely burning, just a pile of ash and glowing embers with a tongue of flame hovering weakly over a single charred piece of wood.

Three.

Pain shuddering through his legs, streaming through his veins, pumping all through his body.

Two. One.

Remus raised his eyebrows in questions they came to a stop, but Lisa shook her head. Struggling under his dead weight, she took him right beside the fire, grabbing a handful of green powder out of her pocket as she did so. Dropping it in and stepping into the flames, she looked at him, at his drooping eyelids and bloodied cheeks, then whispered, "Order of the Phoenix 'eadquarters," and prayed.

.

.

The meeting was interrupted by a sudden violent flare of green fire in the hearth. Those closest to it stood, wands raised, staring at the two figures who had stepped out.

Sirius choked and leapt forwards at once.

"Moony," he breathed.

Remus was barely recognisable, wearing nothing but a layer of his own blood, his body butchered and beaten, his ribs showing through his skin, clear and white as the ivory keys on a grand piano. His eyes were closed.

The girl beside him stood tall, looking over the members of the Order. "'ere," she said. "I've got 'im back for yeh. Just … keep 'im, alright? Don't let 'im come back. They'll kill 'im next time."

Before anyone could stop her, she stepped back into the still-active floo and was whisked away.

.

.

**May 21st 1979**

**THE NIGHTMARE**

Gasping. Crying. Snapping.

_"Don't touch me!"_

Fingers across his skin, prodding where it hurt, holding him still as he writhed.

_"No! No! Get off me!"_

Silver eyes fluttered above him like twin searchlights in the dark.

_"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."_

Voices everywhere. People walked in and out. More hands on his ribs.

_"Don't hurt me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"_

What were they saying? He didn't care. He didn't know. He was scared. He was so, so scared and his body felt nothing but pain and his eyes saw no-one but enemies and he heard nothing but threats.

_"I'msorrysorrysorrysorry. I won't do it again. Don't hurt me. Alpha. Alpha, please."_

The voices and the people and hands all over him and the blinding pain behind his eyes. He screamed once before he passed out.

.

The next time he woke up, there were no hands and no voices and the pain had dulled.

"Remus?"

He shifted at the sound of his name. " _Yes?_ " It was a raspy whisper, but his voice worked all the same.

"It's me. It's Sirius. You're … you're alright now. Can you open your eyes?"

He tried and found he could. "Do I want to? Is this … is this just a dream?"

"No, Moony. I'm here."

"Prove it."

There was silence for a moment and he panicked. Had Sirius left him? Alone again?

Then there was a spot of warmth on his lips and the pain melted away as Sirius kissed him.

Sirius pulled back ( _come back, come back, please come back_ ) and brushed a hand against Remus's cheeks, where tears ran down to his chin. "Open your eyes," he whispered.

In the half-light of the room, Remus could see the grey outline of the door ( _escape escape escape_ ) and the waning moon through the window. He was on his bed—the same, familiar bed with his borrowed books on the bedside table and his borrowed clothes on the floor. On the chair beside him was Sirius, whose pale face seemed to shine out of the black surroundings. The wizard smiled a watery smile and reached a hand out to rub at Remus's shoulder. "You're safe here," he whispered. "You're okay."

"I'm okay."

"Yes," Sirius breathed. "You're okay."

.

.

**May 22nd 1979**

Remus woke with a warm weight next to him. He was entwined with Sirius, whose hair lay across his face as he slept, moving with every exhale. He could not at that moment even think about how wrong this was, only that this man was beautiful, and he felt beautiful himself.

The day broke through the window and sunlight traced patterns on the floor. It was warmer than it had been all year, the late-spring sunlight having finally arrived from behind the gloom of winter.

"Sirius," he whispered to himself. There was no-one to hear him but the man himself, whose chest still moved with the slow breaths if sleep. "I think I'm in love. It's stupid, really. I don't know what it's meant to feel like. But my heart has never burned like this. Like … like a bonfire in the rain. It … fizzles, Sirius, like it's just refusing to die." He reached out a hand and brushed a strand of mahogany hair away from Sirius's eyes. "It won't die, Sirius. Not until I do, at least."

.

He slept again and woke again without Sirius beside him. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not. Did he want to see the man right then?

He brushed a finger against the pulse at his neck. His heart gave away no answer.

.

The body came in that afternoon. They called Remus down, and he hobbled on a pair of crutches to the front door, where Dumbeldore, Sirius and the Potters stood.

"What is it?" he asked, looking from each of their grim faces to the next.

Lily shifted her head to the doorway, and Remus, frustrated, opened it with his good arm.

In the centre of the patio was the body. Cornflour hair spread in a tangled mess around a face as pale as the moon. Lisa's body was twisted in all the wrong places, blood staining her t-shirt and bare legs.

Remus stumbled down the steps. On her chest was a note, clean and white and printed in Doc's steady hand.

_Here lies a lesson in obedience._

_She wasn't good like you were, little pup._

He choked, falling to his knees before her. He didn't look at the bruises on her legs. He didn't notice the blood on his hands from where he brushed her hair from her face.

"Lisa," he whispered. "Oh god, Lisa. I'm sorry."

He began to cry. The last few months had brought so many tears he wondered whether his eyes would ever be dry again.

She had always been so strong, but here her legs looked like matchsticks, her arms like the tiniest twigs on the end of a branch.

Her face had always been hard and full of emotion, but here it was like porcelain.

Even in her sleep, she had never been so still. Not like this.

Like a doll in the window of the toy shop, porcelain face and colourless skin and not a trace of life in her eyes.

Greyback had turned a girl made of iron into a corpse made of glass.

.

Sirius woke with a start. A scream cut through the house, loud and clear to Sirius even from three floors above the source.

He sprinted down the stairs. His feet make a racket on the wooden floors. His hands slapped the bannisters as he flung himself down each flight.

He shuddered to a stop outside Remus's room, breathing hard into the silence.

"Sirius?" came the small voice from inside. "Is … is that you?"

He took another step forward. "Hey, Moony."

A snort from inside. " _Moony?_ "

"Yeah," Sirius said. "I don't know why I said it. Sorry, I—"

"No!" A pause. "No, I … I like it. I was just shocked, is all. You said it before, didn't you? When we came out the fire."

He didn't know what to say. There was only silence from behind the door.

"Can I come in?"

"If you'd like," Remus murmured, almost too quiet for Sirius to hear.

He pushed himself inside and stopped in the doorway. Remus was curled at the head of his bed, tear tracks running down his cheeks, nestled amongst his scars and freckles like rivers through a forest. Behind him, through the half-open window, the crescent moon sat high in the sky.

"Sorry," the werewolf whispered. "I'm a mess."

Sirius sat down next to him, perched on the edge of the bed. "I suppose you're allowed to be. In situations like this, I mean."

"I guess so." He buried his curls in his knees. "I still feel … I don't know. Pathetic. Like … I don't belong here, but I'm different now. I never really fit in with the Pack, but now…" he sighed. "I can't go back. And as … as horrible as they are, as they were to me, they were family. I loved them—some of them. And now I don't know where I belong."

Without a word, Sirius swung his legs up onto the bed and wrapped his arms around Remus's shaking form, pressing his face into the golden curls at the top of his head. Remus sobbed once, muffling the sound in Sirius's shoulder, and Sirius felt the tears soak through his t-shirt as they sat there.

"She's dead, Sirius," he said, the words choked.

"I know."

"Will you stay?"

He turned his head, frowning in confusion. "What?"

"Will you … will you stay tonight? I … I don't know if I can…"

"Yeah," he pushed himself further under the duvet. "Yeah, of course."

.

.

_INTERLUDE_

_Lisa had been bitten when she was nine, and had been carried into the cave that served as the cubs' rooms that month. Her hair had fallen about her like a halo, Remus had thought._

_It wasn't until the next day that she woke, and when she did she thrashed where she lay, refusing to let anyone touch her. Remus watched from the doorway._

_"How old are you?" he asked once the room was clear, everyone else gone down to eat._

_She glared at him. "Wossit to you?"_

_He shrugged. "Jus' tryin' to be friendly."_

_A moment of contemplation, in which she sat up, tossing her long hair over her shoulder. "I'm nine. Nearly ten."_

_"So am I," he said. "Nine, I mean. My birthday's in March. Dunno which day though. So I'm not ten for a while yet."_

_"My birthday's in one month, is wot my mum says." She sniffed. "I'm older than you."_

_"No you're not."_

_"You jus' said so yerself! Your birthday's in March. Mine's in August."_

_He scoffed, but was internally pleased to have someone new to talk to._

_And so it was._

.

.

**May 24th 1979**

**THE OLDE SEADOG**

"I'm ready to tell you some things now."

They'd looked at him—Moody with his mechanical eye whizzing up and down Remus's body, Dumbledore with his blue eyes fixed and sharper than ever. Sirius had stood behind Remus, still and quiet but so definitely _there_ and Remus wasn't sure why he was so relieved at that.

"We'll talk over a drink, shall we?" Dumbledore had said after a moment of silence. "Why don't you come with me and we'll floo from the kitchen?"

The fire spat them out in a pub, well-kept but rather small, consisting of only five tables throughout the room. The woman at the bar nodded once to them and tilted her head towards a table in the corner, set a little apart from the others. "Mornin', Albus. What'll you be 'avin fer today?"

"Four butterbeers please, Madam Bigbury. And a bowl of chips. Extra ketchup."

"Sit yerselves down and I'll bring it over fer yeh."

Remus was sure West Country accents had never been so strong as Madam Bigbury's. She sounded—and looked—like the stereotypical gal to own a Cornish smuggling inn. It was just like Dumbledore to frequent place like this, he thought, looking around at the paintings of ships battered by storms that hung on every wall. An old anchor hung behind the bar, rusted and as wide as a man's armspan.

The pub, apart from them, was empty.

They sat, Remus perched awkwardly on the edge of his seat, ready to fly if need be. He'd been to pubs before, of course; Greyback like nothing more than a good pint, but Remus felt strangely vulnerable among the wizards, aware that he was still weak.

"Remus," Dumbeldore started, looking him in the eye. "You'll need to tell us of some of the things that happened earlier this month."

"Yes," he said. "I know. Just … let me say that part as I want to."

"Go on then, Mr Lupin."

"I'd rather you asked questions first, Dumbledore. I don't know how to start. I don't know what you need to know."

Their drinks were delivered just then, four pints of butterbeer and four little tumblers of firewhiskey. The latter was delivered with a smirk and a wink. "No charge for that, Albus. Compliments of the chef. You know she's had her eye on you since you was a young'un."

"Thank you, Madam Bigbury."

"The chips'll come in a minute."

"Perfect."

They waited until she was back behind the bar and out of earshot before Moody spoke up.

"The girl. Who was she?"

Remus winced. "Lisa. My … my only friend, I reckon."

"A werewolf?"

"Yes."

"And the letter?"

He hesitated. "Greyback is … he's obsessed with loyalty. _Obedience._ She … well, she rescued me, didn't she? So he killed her. That's how it works."

"He didn't just kill her."

"No." He looked into his glass, taking a sip of froth from the top. "It's something he does to … to everyone, really. A way to assert his control. Only the very highest in the hierarchy escape it."

"You?"

"Oh, yes," he spat bitterly. "There were a few months he used to fuck me nearly every night. But … yes. Years and years of it. He doesn't let you move or speak or … anything, really. You just lie there, and he mocks you as he does it, and when he draws blood he'll lap it up, or make you do it yourself, always grinning. It's … it's foul."

The table was silent.

"And then he treats you all nice, calls you Little Pup, or whatever, but then slaps you if you step out of line. He'll do it twice in one night, sometimes, and you don't even have to pretend it doesn't hurt because that how he _likes_ it. He wants you to … to scream, to cry. He gets off from it, I think. Pain. In children, especially. And me. There's … there's something about me. He kept calling me back when there were all the other options. I was so scared, as a kid. Now it's just … normal. Or I'm numb to it, or something. It's still awful, but that's the way it is. I barely struggled by the end."

Silence, three faces—Dumbledore, Moody and Sirius—held nothing but shock and anger.

Finally: "The bastard," Sirius whispered. "That fucking bastard."

"We'll move on, shall we?" Remus murmured very quietly.

"Quite," said Dumbledore. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, Mr Lupin. It's … awful. Just awful."

Moody cleared his throat. "Was there ever any talk of Voldemort?"

"Who?"

"Uh, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? You-Know-Who? The Dark Lord?"

"Oh. Yeah, the Dark Lord. Lots. They'd … what's the word? … kind of _preach_ about him. Like he was some god or something. Revolutionising wizarding society and bringing power to Dark creatures and all that. I never listened, really. Sounded phony to me."

"Did you ever get the impression that he was in contact with Greyback or the Pack in any way?"

"I don't know. We don't know any of the Alpha's business, really. Don't know nothing about any wizard contacts."

Moody frowned, rapping the table lightly with his knuckles. "Any wizards about the place, at your camp, or whatever?"

"No. I'd know for sure."

"How?"

"The smell."

"Ah."

Moody looked up and gave a tight smile to the landlady, who brought over two baskets of chips and a bottle of ketchup. "'ere yeh are. I'll be in the back if yeh need me."

"Thanks," said Sirius, his voice quiet, as if he was smaller when seated with two more powerful wizards. He was still looking at Remus.

They waited a moment for Madam Bigbury to bustle off before resuming.

"Alright, different matter. What were you saying about the things you've heard recently—a secret party, or something?"

"Oh yeah." Sirius sat forwards in his seat. "Anything about a meeting, quite soon? Think it was April."

"I … honestly I can't think. Um, April. No meetings, I think."

"Alright, but … anything? Happening in May with Voldemort's followers. I think…"

"What?" Moody snapped.

"In … it must have been January? Well, I told you about what I heard … Bellatrix and Travers, right? Talking about meeting with Greyback and his werewolves in April … well, what if they're the same thing? It's a little far-fetched, but a Death Eater movement, especially with force like Greyback's, is important. We can't let our information go to waste. Remus?"

"Well," he said. "There was something. It's … it's hard to remember. I don't know if I want to remember. It was only last week. When I was … there."

"What was it?"

"I can only remember snippets. It might not be important."

"Tell us, Lupin. C'mon, boy," Moody snapped.

"Can you … I dunno, take it out?" He gestured vaguely towards his head. "I don't want to … I'm sorry. I don't want to think about it hard enough to say it out loud. It's too fresh. Too recent. Too bloody painful."

Dumbledore looked down at his hands. "Of course, Mr Lupin. I could summon my pensieve if you'd prefer to do it that way. Do not feel pressured to reveal anything but the information itself, Remus. I don't want to hurt you."

Sirius thought of his speech at the meeting. How he regretted not pushing 'the werewolf' for more information. How he claimed 'we' failed, not 'I'. He wondered whether it was a change of heart, or if either the meeting or the present conversation was just a lie.

"Yes," Remus said. "How do I…?"

"I'll explain when we have the pensieve. It should take a minute. We're in Cornwall, and we don't want it to spill as it travels from Scotland."

They waited in silence, Remus staring into the bottom of his empty butterbeer glass. He chewed on a chip idly.

"As we wait?" Sirius asked out of the blue, holding one of the firewhiskey tumblers up in a mock toast.

Even Dumbledore threw back the glass, grimacing as it went down. The whiskey burned down Remus's throat and spread a warm feeling blossoming in his chest.

Moody smacked his lips. "Ah, a good whiskey, that. That's proper alcohol, lad," he said, looking at Sirius, "Not the cheap bottles you snuck into school."

Sirius laughed. "Never the cheap stuff, Moody. Between James and I we had a little fortune for whatever we liked at school." He glanced at Dumbledore, " _Never_ on school grounds, of course. And _obviously_ we weren't underage."

The old man winked. "And never once did I have the odd drink in the back of my office. _Never._ "

They soon fell back into silence, but the warm glow of alcohol stopped it from being an awkward one.

Before long, the pensieve flew through the window in a smooth motion, settling in front of Dumbledore like a bird might to its nest. It was a stone basin filled with what could be liquid platinum, or unicorn's tears. The fluid flowed around the edges as the bowl came to a halt.

Everyone leaned forwards, mesmerised by the enchanting colours in the depths of the metallic-seeming water.

"Sirius," Albus said quietly. "Could you give Remus your wand?"

"Mine?"

"Yes. I think it would work best."

The tension was palpable. He handed over his wand with teeth clenched and eyes locked desperately onto Remus's. A wand, of all things, should not be easily given away. It felt wrong to Sirius that someone else would be using it; it was his; it was part of him.

Remus held onto it like it held a disease, letting onto his thumb and forefinger touch it. He held it away from him. A bomb about to explode. A gun that shoots at random moments.

"Now hold it to your temple, and think. Think of the moment. You don't have to imagine it. Just feel it. Find something about the moment in common with here, or that you can recreate, and pull. Just pull it straight out."

He tried to think. "Have you got … have you got anything silver?"

Moody frowned. "Why?"

"Something I can recreate."

The Auror frowned. "It'll hurt."

"That's the point." He met Moody's eyes with a dead stare of his own.

Dumbledore, at long last, undid a pin from the lapel of his robes. "This should do," he said.

Remus touched the pin, feeling the sting on his palm, imagining it covering his hands. The burn wrapped up his wrists as he focused, and soon enough his hands were clutching onto a set of silver bars. He closed his eyes and the cave rose around him, bloodstained rock beneath his feet. He didn't replay the scene, but thought of the feelings, of the voices, and gathered it together, coaxing it slowly out of his mind as he pulled with Sirius's wand. As he opened his eyes, a string of effervescent memory drifted after the wand. Without having to be told, he dropped it into the rippling mirror-like water.

He breathed out. "There."

"You can do magic, then," Sirius stated.

"What?"

"You can do magic."

Remus made a face, dropping the wand onto the table and pushing it back towards its master.

Dumbledore peered into the bowl. "We'll be back in a moment, Remus. He looked at Moody, then at Sirius and plunged his head into the bowl.

The bowl was large enough for all three men to see the memory, and Remus sat watching them as their bodies slumped around the shimmering pool.

.

Remus had his hands on the bars, and Sirius could see the silver burning his skin. He winced, but kept his hands as they were, shaking the bars, checking for weaknesses, for a way out.

Echoing voices from down a tunnel as they approached the little antechamber.

Fenrir Greyback's ugly mush appeared at the bars, swimming from seemingly nowhere. The memory, it seemed, was twisted. The corners of Sirius's vision were warped. "Hello Little Pup," he jeered.

A woman with long grey hair materialised next to him. "Not so strong now are we, boy? Little tame wolf."

The name Lorraine Blakesley came up in Sirius's mind.

There was nothing but fuzz for a moment, like static on the television screen.

When it cleared, Sirius looked away because they were suddenly standing over Remus, and their leers gave their intentions away.

As he stared fixedly at the wall, he could hear Remus's muffled screams and their laughing, laughing, laughing, yapping like hounds from the deepest pits of hell.

Then it was over, and there was nothing but raspy breathing and still leftover giggles from the old woman. A snarl from Greyback.

They walk out, and as they do so, their voices carry to Sirius's ears.

"Yeah, on the 10th. It's a Full, so we'll arrive at noon. Ensure the job's done before we transform. What's his name? Bel- something? We need 'im dead before he releases that damned thing to the public."

"Why's it so bad?"

"What do you mean, gal? It's utter shit! It means they can restrict us and blame us for every fucking crime. No more getting away easy. It means we won't be free anymore. Imagine it, Blakesley. Every wolf would be a tame one. Our very wildness shut down. They want to suppress the wolf."

Remus's breath came in short gasps. The footsteps faded around the corner.

.

Their heads resurfaced without a splash, eyes deep wells of understanding.

.

.

**June 7th 1979**

**THE ARMOURY**

The days leading up to the full moon was a flurry of reams of paperwork and floo calls to allies and inquiries in the Ministry archives.

'Bel- something' was all they had to go off. At this Bel-'s house, the attack would take place. The Dark Lord and all his Death Eaters would be there along with a pack of hungry werewolves. The day loomed closer and closer.

"Bel-," Moody muttered under his breath. "Some ruddy invention that's ruining a werewolf's freedom? Has he found the cure?"

"Shut up, you old codger!" Sirius groaned. "Some of us are trying to sleep!"

"Watch what you're callin' me, Black!" Moody barked back into the dark, successfully waking the rest of the room. " And I don't care an inch about yer beauty sleep, you cheeky bastard. Go shack up with Emmeline if you're that bothered."

"Emmeline hates me, Moody. Bloody hell, everyone hates me, don't they?"

Someone groaned at Sirius's left. "Shuddup, Black."

He huffed, adding in an eye roll that no-one could see—though who knew how well that eye of Moody's worked?

Twas the night before the full moon and they were sleeping at the Potter's for the night, only to find the entire Order couldn't fit into the house, so the ladies had been quick to pick rooms, leaving half the men squeezed into the living room. Sirius had no way to subtly sneak into Remus's room without Moody seeing him. It was as if the old Auror never slept.

Sighing, he rolled back over and knotted his fingers into the carpet, wishing for a body beside him, golden skin and silver scars.

.

**June 8th 1979**

"Belby!" He gaped, muttering to himself. "Bloody hell. How could I forget that?"

He spun on the spot and was in the Ministry in an instant, apparating straight into the Atrium, then sprinting into the elevator and pressing the button again and again and again.

"Department of Mysteries," the voice in the elevator announced.

He was in, running through the maze of rooms until somehow he was in that boring little office. "Where's the boss?" he demanded. "I'm an Auror. Bring me the boss!"

And then the boss walked in, the same man from last time, and: "Belby. What's Belby working on? I need to see your paperwork. He's a potioneer here."

.

"Dumbledore, it's a potion. Belby is a potioneer with the Department of Mysteries."

The wizened headmaster looked up as Sirius made his declaration. "Ah. Brilliant work, Sirius. Tell me everything."

He sat across from Dumbledore at the desk. "He's made this potion. Going to release it as soon as it's properly tested, but they're pretty sure it works. It allows the werewolf to keep its conscious human mind when transformed."

"Fascinating."

"But why would they want that destroyed? Surely that's good for them?"

"Remember what Greyback said in Remus's memory? He was talking about their freedom, about the mind of the Wolf. They don't want that taken away. They view it as a gift."

"So they're going to kill him."

Dumbledore stood to his full height and summoned a piece of paper from across the room. He brandished a quill. "They can try."

.

**June 10th 1979**

On the day of the Full, the Order met in the dining room. Emmeline was explaining new handy spells, and Benjy Fenwick hobbling around with his famous crate of dangerous potions, distributing the phials of who-knows-what.

Dumbledore stood, silent, at the head of the table.

"It is time," he said, and the room fell into silence. Everyone looked up.

"Now?"

"I guess they will already have arrived. We must make haste. We are going to the house of Damocles Belby"

.  
 _  
The wolves sat among the trees._

_Greyback ran his tongue over his teeth._

_Cadd sharpened his claws with a knife._

_Blakesley sat and watched the horizon where the moon would rise._

_The cubs, small and quiet and unsure, huddled at the back. They'd been told they had to fight. They'd been told it would be for freedom, for their future. Jake, the little boy bitten only months ago, shivered._

_The wolves waited. The Death Eaters would be here soon. The moon would rise. And then they'd have their blood. Then no-one could stand between them and their freedom._

.

**THE PRELUDE**

As they disapparated, Sirius felt strong hand latch onto his arm. They materialised in a field, thick woodland on every side and a house in the centre.

The house was small, the light off barring a single flickering glow from one of the upper windows.

Damocles Belby, the man in the house, had no idea what awaited him. Had no idea what his own invention had brought upon hm. It had brought the wolves to his door.

Sirius turned to see Remus standing at his side.

"What're you doing here?"

"I'm going to fight," he said.

"No," Sirius growled, sounding more like a wolf at that moment than Remus did. "You are not."

"You can't stop me, wizard."

The word was hissed with such hatred that Sirius nearly took a step back. Instead, he just grew incredibly scared. His heart seemed to shrivel. He suddenly realised that he did not want Remus Lupin to die. He wanted to tell him that. To say I love you. Because he didn't know why and didn't know how, but he had fallen for the werewolf. He had fallen hard and then, speaking to him like that, it hurt.

I love you, his brain screamed. His mouth just said, very coldly:

"Oh, I can, wolf."

Remus snarled. "Don't think you can control me. I will kill Greyback. I'll kill him. After what he's done. To me. To Lisa. That murderous bastard. I'll kill him. I'll kill him and I'll enjoy it. You fucking watch me." And the look in his eyes—like a raging fire, spitting sparks into the evening air. And the way his hair was brushed a little in the wind, whipping like in the movies. And the way his legs shook, just then, and Sirius didn't know why until seconds later.

Because behind them, like the pupil of a distant giant, rose the Full Moon.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle, the consequences, and the years that follow.

****

**  
FLOWER MOON  
.**

 **THE BATTLEFIELD**

**#179**

A hundred transforming werewolves, concealed by the foliage, and the Order trapped in the middle, slowly spreading their troops to surround the house of Damocles Belby in a protective ring. Surely the potioneer must have noticed something by now?

As they transformed, the shrieks echoed through the night. It was June, and the early summer evening still held a phantom of warmth from the day. A distant birdcall was cut off as Fenrir Greyback, in all his glory as a wolf, howled at the rising moon.

Remus writhed next to Sirius, his body already wolfish, only his soft amber eyes recognisable.

Silence once it was over. Nothing but the soft crunch of boots on the dry grass and the heavy breath of the Order members, who looked around themselves with fear tangled in their scents.

Remus stood on shaky legs, the pull of the moon searing through his veins.

And— _oh_. A human, so, so close. In fact, the human's legs, encased in tight jeans, were very, very close. The smell of his blood and his sweat was overpowering and so, so tempting. Something made him want to make this particular human _his_ , to mark him, to own him, to taste him and savour him like a delicacy.

Remus growled deep in his throat.

Sirius, heart pounding, backed away, wand raised and pointing towards the approaching werewolf, who owned a rack of knives in his mouth.

Remus, a string of drool dripping from his jaws, stepped forward. Sirius leapt back. The wolf's eyes were glowing pits of fire, his teeth bared, his growl like rain on a tin roof. Remus stalked closer and closer until Sirius, wand quivering in his hand, had to look away.

"Moony," he whispered, voice raw, eyelids fluttering shut through fear.

The werewolf paused.

"Moony, please. I am not your enemy." He drew in a breath. "Remus."

Just as he finished his plead, there was a harsh _crack_ followed by a series of identical sounds, and soon the air was awash with inky black smoke. Figures in pointed hoods and silver masks apparated onto the battlefield, standing around the perimeter.

As Sirius turned to look, he saw the other wolves had broken the treeline and were closing in, each with canine grins of their own. Even Remus was distracted, nose held high to sniff the air.

It had begun.

The air fizzed with residual magic. Moody slammed his cane into the ground and the entire clearing shook. As a new chorus of howls began, more birds flew from the trees until the area was devoid of life. Devoid of witnesses. The fighters were alone.

The werewolves charged forwards first, wind rippling their fur, and the small group of Order members barely avoided their gnashing teeth, casting _incarcerous_ and _immobulus_ left and right. Spells flew from the still far-off ring of Death Eaters, and these were nasty hexes and jinxes that would make any wizard wince. A red light flew at Sirius and he barely blocked it with a hasty _protego_ , spinning to see his adversary.

A masked woman stood, wand raised, chutzpah in every line of her posture. She cackled like a witch from muggle stories, and Sirius recognised the tone. Bellatrix. He swung his wand around, sending a stunner, but she swiped it away and a powder blue jet zipped back at him. He leapt out of the way.

"TRAITOR!" she screeched. "DIRTY LITTLE TRAITOR!"

Another red light. He tried to duck but it skimmed his shoulder, sending needle-like pains wracking through his body and he howled in pain for just a moment (acid through his veins, knives ripping through him, gutting him like a fish, ripping him open, picking out his insides) before he flicked his wand at her with fatigue, breaking her concentration. The cruciatus was lifted and her mask flew off her face, turning to mist as it hit the ground.

Time stood still. Her face took him tumbling back into the past. Bellatrix's eyes were wide and too round, set like two onyx stones in a mother-of-pearl face. Her wild hair flew around herself like a kite on the wind, caught by every whisper, twisting around her face. She looked like a girl to Sirius; Bellatrix was still the same baby-faced demon who wrestled the attention from him at every one of his Birthday parties. A girl behind a woman's mask, swamped by her clothes, shadowed by every one of her curses. Sirius wondered if every Death Eater was a child.

The world returned in a rush. Spell after spell. Blocked and blocked until one got through on one side or the other, though it was usually him receiving the injury. He panted in exhaustion, heart slamming against his ribs. Blood was blossoming on his thigh.

He was briefly aware of the commotion around him: werewolves kicking up dirt into the Order members, screams and shouted spells and the odd bark or howl rising above the cacophony. A symphony of screams.

Sirius twirled his wand and transfigured the grass below Bellatrix's feet into tiny snakes. They weaved up her body, tying up her ankles and twisting around her thighs. She hissed at him angrily.

But with her arms, still wheeling around her body with manic gusto, she shot a blasting charm at the ground below his feet and the explosion—loud as a thunderclap over his head—sent dirt sailing into the air. He landed on his back with a groan. His ears rang with the noise from the explosion.

She laughed above him, again with the cackle.

" _Shut up,_ ," he muttered to himself, and flicked his wand from behind the curtain of dust in a simple expelliarmus. Her wand skittered into his hand.

He stood, a grin on his face before stunning her quick and tucking her wand into his pocket.

"Thank you, cousin." He held her own wand and pointed it towards her. " _Silencio_."

As he uttered the _'-o'_ , a weight slammed into his back and he fell, sprawled on his front and gasping for air. There was a breath on his neck, a growl in his ear, a line of drool on his cheek. A werewolf stood on his back.

His wand arm was trapped so he tried to push himself up from under the beast, but there was a layer of heavy muscle rippling under the grey fur.

 _Grey_. Twisting his head, he saw rotten teeth, saw the biggest and strongest and most scarred werewolf on the field. Fenrir Greyback's claws pushed into his back. His fangs wandered far too close to his vulnerable neck.

Tight breathing. He would _not_ cry. He lifted his eyes to the sky, to Heaven, if it existed at all.

And there, just as Sirius looked, another wolf crashed into Greyback, pushing the Alpha off the human's back. Remus, a wiry thing with russet fur, snarled at his Alpha.

_Not this time._

Greyback seemed to grin. _Hello, Little Pup. Did you like your present?_

Another snarl and claws clutching at the dirt for friction before he took a leap at the larger wolf. Snarling and growling and a flurry of claws and teeth and blood and fur. Rolling in the dirt, a power struggle, aiming for the neck, the legs, the soft part behind the elbows.

And then blood and blood because his Alpha held him around the neck. Greyback shook his body, feeling the rip of skin and fur beneath his fangs. Remus howled in pain.

Sirius had long left, running off to where more fighting was going on, shooting spells towards Death Eaters and other werewolves. Remus and Greyback were alone.

So he hung limp and lowered his head. Greyback, with a final shake, dropped him in the dirt, circling him once with victory blazing in his eyes.

Remus whimpered.

The Alpha closed in.

And from behind came a cub, its human form only eight years old. Jake Adamson threw himself onto Fenrir Greyback with wild abandon, thinking only of the kind voice of Remus Lupin, the only words of encouragement he'd heard since he'd been bitten. He was eight, but a spark lay in his eye, determination set in his little frame, quivering with adrenaline.

Greyback snapped his spine in a single bite.

The broken body of the wolf fell to the floor in a heap of ragged fur.

Remus stood. Anger flashing within, he bit at Greyback's hind leg—hard—before the larger wolf could turn around, and the howl of pain that followed rang into the night. He hung onto the leg, and no matter where Greyback swung his body around, Remus would not let go, his jaw clamped tight around the scarred sinew.

They grappled for who-know how long, and then it was over. One moment Remus's teeth were closing around his Alpha's neck, and the next he had ripped Fenrir Greyback's throat out. Blood soaked into his muzzle as the older wolf writhed below him, yelping and twitching before coming to a still.

He thought of Lisa, a shattered glass ornament outside the Potters'. He thought of Greyback's filthy hands all over her. He thought of his parents, crying and confused. He thought of little Jake on the ground only metres away.

He stood above his master's body and stared at it. This time, he was the butcher. He was the one to stand over the other, to hold the power, to lap the blood up with a sandpaper tongue. This time, Greyback was the one on the ground, eyes drooping closed, the last glimmer of those medallions fading. This time, Remus was in charge.

Now, at the death of his predecessor, Remus Lupin was the Alpha.

.

Battle, Sirius realised, involved no organisation. There was almost no structure to it at all; it was not fighting one enemy and then the next. It was a crushing collision of bodies, corpses stood upright because there was nowhere to fall, spells hitting his own friends because he couldn't see well enough to tell the difference, spinning around and seeing no way out, feet sinking deeper into the churned-up mud and blood below his feet. Battle was nothing but a dark parody of snowball fights at Hogwarts: no order, no time or bother to plan, just glory and bloodlust and underhanded tactics. Only on the battlefield, the laughter of Hogwarts was replaced with screams and howls and desperate spells cast with dying breaths.

Sirius was ploughing through the Death Eaters, looking for anyone from his own side, when suddenly more _crack_ s filled the air, but instead of black robes they were burgundy. The Aurors had arrived.

In moments, the Death Eaters disapparated as one, and the wolves, with their numbers diminished, sprinted off into the woods.

For a while it was quiet. Nobody spoke at all, excluding harsh whispers of " _count the bodies,_ " and a few sobs as they did so. A veil of despair hung over the place in the same way the hanging man swung over a crowd as they watched the pendulum-like movement in awe long after the deed was done. Sirius wasn't sure whether the silence was respect for the dead or from the shock that it was all over so quickly, but he couldn't bring himself to speak.

That was the first real battle of the war. One of many, he was sure, but this was the first thing that had escalated beyond a quick fight behind a warehouse, or a get-in-get-out murder with the following consequences, or an attempted confrontation like the one so many months ago, when they had found Remus by the river.

_Where was Remus?_

Six werewolves were caught in ropes from the Auror force on their way out. Two Death Eaters were prevented from apparating. Somehow, Bellatrix was free of her bonds and nowhere to be seen.

Sirius cursed. _That was it? That was all we got from that?_

From their side, one werewolf bite and three deaths (Sirius couldn't decide which of the two was worse). A few spell-induced injuries and a single lost limb. The other side had more casualties, a few corpses of tiny pups, which no-one could bring themselves to look at, and ten larger werewolves dead or soon to be. Two more Death Eaters were found to be unconscious on the field and were sent off immediately with the others to be detained.

Sirius spun on his heel, wiping blood from his hands as if it were nothing but strawberry jam.

_Where was Remus?_

He broke the silence. "Where's Remus?"

No-one answered, caught up in their own shock or grief or both.

.

.

**June 24th 1979**

**THE AFTERMATH**

The sun, like a charging bull, chased Sirius through the next weeks. He found himself spending every day lying in the sun for hours, corpse-like, sunglasses perched on his nose, head buried in some awful book which he cared nought about anyway. He couldn't quite manage the Hobbit anymore, and anything with substance made his head spin.

Dumbeldore had insisted he take a break from missions now that the Death Eaters knew of his loyalties. A _break_. Sirius was itching to run, to return to the thrill of espionage, to make love after a day of waiting. But who to do the loving with? His mind still hovered over the thought of Remus Lupin, the impossible beast who had swept him up and taken his heart without second thoughts.

The Potter household felt stale, like opening the biscuit jar to find nothing inside.

Sirius himself was hollow.

Why? _Why?_ Remus had been nothing but an easy shag, an attractive and available man around who was susceptible to Sirius's charm. Nothing but a shag.

A shag who had cried into his chest, clutching at his shirt as he sobbed.

Sirius found himself wanting to cry whenever he thought about the werewolf.

Briefly, he wondered how he was being treated with the rest of the captured lycanthropes at the Ministry. Briefly, he thought of the way his unconscious body had looked when they picked him up after the battle, russet fur stained red with blood, and shut his eyes, resisting the tears. He'd done far too much crying lately.

.

Remus sat through yet another lonely night in the cells below the Ministry. The word WEREWOLF was scrawled above his door as a warning.

Remus stared out the bars at his window onto the fake projection of the night sky. The stars were cold and lifeless. The moon was sickly yellow.

.

.

**1980**

With the war raging around the country, the Ministry in tatters and the werewolves pinned by the blame, the trial was nothing but a formality.

"Remus Lupin, werewolf. Your charges are as follows:" the man's moustache twitched as his mouth moved. "Association with the criminal Fenrir Greyback, under the law of Joint Enterprise. How do you plead?"

Sirius hadn't seen Remus for a year, and there were bags beneath his eyes and deeper hollows at his cheeks, his throat, and visible through the hang of his uniform shirt. "Guilty." His voice was harsh and unpractised.

(Do you know when you shout at night-time, and that is the only sound for miles, and it is like a thunderclap on a sunny day? And the sound rings around the base of the sky and disappears into the unknown, and it feels like the whole world is listening, and if you wait long enough, the night will reply? That was the sound of Remus's voice.)

"Aiding or committing the murder of several unspecified persons on full moons, under the Act which states that 'all lycanthropes are responsible for their actions during the full moon unless the act itself is influenced by outside sources.' How do you plead?"

Again: "Guilty." A word spat from split lips, choked at the throat.

"The murder of Fenrir Greyback, restricted through the first ever law of the Ministry. How do you plead?"

"I thought you wanted him dead."

"The accused is reminded that the Wizengamot will accept no answer at this point but 'guilty' or 'not guilty'."

A pause. "Guilty."

"Unsupervised transformations over a number of years, against the Werewolf Restriction Act of 1816. Does the accused require a recital of the Act in question?"

"No." Of course not. Hours and hours and hours in the study, bent over reams of papers listing law after law after legislation after legislation after act and act and act.

"How do you plead?"

"Guilty."

"Dangerous transformations over a number of years, against the same act."

"Theft."

"Violence."

"Failure to register."

_Guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty._

Sirius closed his eyes. He couldn't look at the way Remus's curls were roughly shorn short and hanging limp. He couldn't look at those lips, made for kissing but instead saying nothing but _guilty, guilty, guilty._

"Charges passed. The accused is guilty on twelve accounts." He looked around the room, moustache sitting smug. "Standard procedure calls for three months imprisonment followed by execution by means of a silver bullet through the heart. Are there any objections?"

Sirius stood and walked out, surrounded by all the silence.

.

Remus stayed and cowered under the condemning gaze of the Wizengamot.

He remembered the dream from a year before: a wolf tried by rabbits.

_No rights, no rights, no rights._

_Guilty, guilty, guilty._

.

.

**1981**

"I'm pregnant!" Lily had said, and they'd all cried. James for hope and Lily for joy and Sirius for wishing for a better life.

"We're going into hiding," James had said, and they'd all cried. James for fear and Lily for pregnancy and Sirius for the sorry state of the world.

And then the Potters died and Sirius cried enough tears for all three of them.

Perhaps he could've chased after the traitor (who had never been there enough to share tears, as the rest of them did), if it were not for the dementor in his heart, planted two years before and casting shadows ever since.

He watched the window as he waited, and when the owl came about Peter he burned it to ash.

.

Deep below the Ministry, lost in his own turbulent mind, Remus rotted.

The silver shackles at his ankles were his only tether to the living world.

.

.

**1982**

Three months imprisonment became five and ten and fifteen until it simply became 'postponed until further notice'.

Sirius was twenty-two and had not seen Remus for two years. Had not spoken to him for three.

Finally, a short owl mail containing twelve words in Dumbledore's handwriting:

_The execution of Remus Lupin will take place in three days time._

.

His eyes were sunken and his cheeks were hollow and when they told him the news, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Remus hadn't smiled in years, so he settled with sitting on his heels at the back of his cell and waiting for Death to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's just the epilogue to go. Thanks to everyone who's stayed with me!


	8. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 1982, in which everything ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.

**EPILOGUE**

**November 4th, 1982**

**(morning of the hunter's moon)**

The room is accessed through a labyrinth of twisting corridors. With a nondescript door, it's deep beneath the main complex, as if that way, they'll be free from guilt, from blame. His footsteps echo through the halls as he approaches.

The door is unmarked, and the walls are a startling, sterile white.

The white can't cover the stench of death soaked into the plaster.

Tangy. Metallic. Dark and overpowering. No coat of stinking white paint can hide that.

In the half-light of the whitewashed room, grey eyes meet gold. A spark lights up for a second, before sickening and snuffing out. The door closes behind him.

A chair sits in the middle. Remus sits in the chair.

A man takes a gun from his belt.

Sirius closes his eyes. A slight hesitation before the harsh _crack_ of the gun, a muffled cry, and a _plink_ as the bullet hits the floor. A gasp, then a _thump_.

Silence crawls in through the cracks in the floorboards. Silence fills the room. Silence smothers the room in its blanket of ice, and stays.

Grey eyes open and see a halo of blood around a head of bronze curls. A single bullet rolling, rolling, rolling back and forth across the bloodied floorboards. A bloody mark blossoming on the back wall like a rosette. Eyes open, their shine gone like a blown-out candle.

Tomorrow they'll paint over the rosette, over and over with their stinking paint until it's nothing but a shadow through the whitewash. Before that—tonight, in fact—the full moon will rise without Moony. He has counted; it would have been his two-hundred-and-twenty-first.

Below, the body twitches like a stepped-on clockwork toy. The bullet still rolls, the sound a grating scrape against Sirius's ringing ears.

With a last glance at those dead galleon eyes, Sirius turns and leaves, a single silver bullet embedded in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm so sorry. It killed me to write that, but at the same time I was grinning in sadistic glee.
> 
> Thanks to all of you amazing readers, especially those who can take the time to comment. Your reviews always make my day. It took me eight months to write this monster, and it took over my life to the point that I started dreaming about it at night. So thank you for your support, and for showing me that the work paid off.
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> INSPIRATION AND REFERENCES
> 
> This is loosely inspired by Blood Chronicles by oony and I've been influenced a little by The Burning Truth by Liarra. Both are brilliant (and can be found on fanfiction . net), and if you enjoyed this you should love them too. The Burning Truth in particular is really underreviewed for how good it is, so please give both of them love.
> 
> Characters (excluding a few OCs) are JK Rowling's, not mine. So is most of the world, though I did take some liberty with the werewolves. I've created the pubs; they are fictional.
> 
> I've used moon names from an Old English Almanac. It's the way they did it.
> 
> The Hobbit belongs to JRR Tolkien.
> 
> Can't think of anything else?
> 
> .
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. Please review—I'd love to know what you think, and what I can improve.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, be kind to yourselves. If you're feeling awful after reading this, go find something sweet and fluffy to coo over. Don't let it get you down. :)


End file.
